


I can't believe in those hunters and kings

by arazuta, sludgeraptor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Fix-It, Future Claude/Lorenz, Future Claude/Sylvain, Illustrations, Long. it's just going to be so long, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 38,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21837178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arazuta/pseuds/arazuta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sludgeraptor/pseuds/sludgeraptor
Summary: "When I learned that my mother was the daughter of an Alliance noble, I was so surprised I thought the whole world was pulling a fast one on me for a week."Braving the strange political hellscape of Fódlan, Claude attempts to navigate contentious international politics and the dictatorial reach of the Church of Seiros all in the hopes of making his dreams come true.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	1. Three Houses

**Author's Note:**

> In other words, an AU where Claude is the protagonist. The working title of this fic is Fire Emblem: Claude.

The steady beating of the wyvern’s wings against the ocean wind is almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the waves rushing beneath him. Claude sits perched on the creature’s back, arms securely around Nader’s midsection. He likes to think of himself as a competent flier, but he’s not so good he could make this trip alone. 

Claude looks over his shoulder. The shoreline of his home has receded beyond the horizon. There is only yawning sea staring at him, empty enough to make a man wonder if any place is real at all. Of course, the peaks of the mountains at Fódlan’s Throat are still just tall enough to see in the distance from this altitude, a sharp reminder of why he’s set out in the first place. 

Before him the Ordelian coastline comes into view, the presence of Goneril’s imposing ships slowly waning. They’ll be landing soon. Though Claude would never show it, he can feel a nervous energy blooming in his chest, settling like a stone where his brave heart should be. He remembers his mother’s words:

  
“Be careful,” she said, while rifling through his things, making certain he’d packed enough poisons to see him through. House Daphnel had sent a message through a few days prior, telling of Duke Riegan’s failing health. It was the first time Claude had ever gotten his mother to talk openly about family or where she was from, the first time he’d ever gotten to hear anything about his lineage in more than colorful insults from would-be assassins. 

“I grew up in Fódlan,” she warned, “And it’s nothing like here. They don’t take kindly to,” and she paused, to weigh her words carefully, before deciding on, “most things.” 

“I’m going to need you to be a little more specific,” Claude joked, carefully securing a dagger against his side to hide beneath his jacket.

“They don’t like people who are different. They don’t like people who ask questions. They want everyone to act a very particular way and live a very particular life.” She frowned, like she was remembering some old argument or another. “And they lie through their teeth,” she added. “I never knew anything about the real history of Fódlan before I moved out here, where the Church of Seiros couldn’t wipe the record.” 

“About that history,” Claude agreed. “Are you ever gonna let me read it?” He’d had all things Fódlan kept out of his grasp for so long. Guess that made sense, in retrospect. 

His mother contemplated, and then left the room briefly, before returning with a book to tuck in with his things. “Even we don’t have everything,” she said. “But you can read that. Just… try not to show that you know,” she warned. “You’re going to have to try to blend in.” 

“So I’ll have to play a part,” Claude said, dismissive, giving her a little wave of his hand as he started to gather his things. “I’m great at that.” 

“Oh, I know,” she said, with the kind of agitation that called to mind years of Claude’s teenaged shenanigans. Claude gave her a grin that to the untrained eye might’ve seemed sheepish, but she seemed unconvinced. She regarded him, then came over to straighten out his collar. “Are you sure you want to go?” 

“Of course,” Claude said, with more confidence than he felt. “Might be my last chance to meet family, after all.” Whether or not that was his true motive felt ambiguous even to Claude. Extended family was such a far-off concept to him. An only child, no aunts or uncles, and his dad’s folks had died before he was even born. What did it mean to have a grandparent? If it was just an older and even grouchier version of a parent, he might be better off without one. There were bigger things at play than grandparents anyways. It might be rude, but Grand-Riegan was a better foot in the door than most other options. Still… he couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be nice. 

“I hope he will receive you warmly,” she said, brushing back some of Claude’s hair, even as he made a face about it. “But don’t get your hopes up.” She kissed his forehead while he laughed, feeling his stomach sink slightly. 

“It’s been years since I’ve been to Fódlan,” Nader laughs, interrupting Claude’s thoughts, wyvern starting to coast downwards towards the craggy beach. “Their navy’s made it almost impossible without a fight.” 

“And we know how much you hate fighting,” Claude agrees, patting Nader’s shoulder while Nader lets out a hearty laugh. 

“Saw too many of my buddies get taken down by those damn Gonerils,” Nader says. Claude understands. He hasn’t seen many battles, but the few he has… He prefers not to think about it. He’ll get seasick. 

Their wyvern lands with an impact, letting out a little huff as it pulls to a stop. Claude dismounts, unloading his bags. 

“You nervous, kid?” Nader asks. 

“Me?” Claude returns. “Never.” He shoulders his bow. 

“That’s the spirit. Want me to stick around while you wait?” 

“I’d say yes, but your ugly mug would probably scare my rescue party off,” Claude jokes. 

“You’re probably right. I’ll head back, then. But if you ever need me to pick you up, you know how to send for me.” 

“Yep,” Claude agrees. The fact that he’s really about to be left alone on this strange continent tries to sink in, but he digs in his heels and refuses to let the anxiety well up. Nader slings an arm around him in a lazy hug. “Hey, watch it, you’re gonna crush me,” Claude laughs. 

“Cause some trouble for me, your highness,” Nader says, clapping Claude on the back before releasing him and cracking his wyvern’s reins. It beats its wings slowly, the wind of it ruffling Claude’s hair. “But not so much you can’t run from it.” Nader winks, and his wyvern takes off, beating a hasty retreat from the shore. 

With all his possessions in tow, Claude starts to walk up the beach, stepping from rocks onto sand. It’s odd how foreign even a beach can look, like stepping foot onto some alien world. Claude finds himself a little perch on a boulder and waits, leg swinging idly while he hums. 

Eventually, a carriage comes into view, pulling to a stop some ways away from him. A young girl steps out, small and unimposing, though her white hair sticks out like nothing else. He wonders if that’s a normal thing here. Claude doesn’t rise to meet her, waiting as she struggles across the sand towards him with a mask of calm determination. 

When she finally arrives, she smooths down her shirt and stares up at him, brows barely furrowed. “Are you Claude?” 

“Hey, kiddo,” Claude greets, watching the way her face twists at the nickname. He’s keen enough to know that this is his ride, but he can’t help but tease. “That’s me. You must be the scouting party. Do you know when your boss is going to arrive?” 

“My boss?” Lysithea asks, with indignity. “I am not just some scout, and I will not be treated like a child. I am the heir of house Ordelia and _I_ am the one who is here to pick you up.” 

“Ohh, I’m sorry,” Claude says, feigning apology as he jumps down. “They told me they were keeping the welcome-party small, but I didn’t think they meant literally,” he says, waving his hand over Lysithea’s head as if the demonstrate the height disparity. Lysithea waves Claude’s hand off. 

“Cut that out,” she says, fuming. “Stop acting like a child and let’s go.” She reaches to grab one of Claude’s bags and grunts with effort as she hefts it up. Claude grabs the others. 

“I can carry my own stuff,” he assures. “You don’t have to struggle on my behalf.” 

“I am fine,” Lysithea replies, with a huff, though she is already breathless by the time they reach the carriage. She tosses it inside and climbs up with a wheeze. Claude climbs in behind her and drops onto the seat. 

“You know, I’m surprised your parents sent you all this way on your own,” Claude says, settling in as the driver begins the ride. 

“I am perfectly capable,” Lysithea says. “I could demonstrate on you, if you wish to keep treating me like some kid.” She narrows her eyes. 

“Point taken. Just saying, sending your heir out alone is a little…” 

“We couldn’t exactly send a war party. We’re trying to remain discreet,” she says. Claude can sense that there’s a little something more to what she’s saying, but she seems to be holding that extra information back for now. 

“Right,” he agrees. “Well, thanks for taking the time.” 

The silence stretches between them for a long time after that, Lysithea watching the countryside roll by. 

“What is Almyra like?” Lysithea eventually asks. 

“It’s a pretty big place,” Claude says. “Answering a question like that might take a couple hours.” 

“Growing up in the Alliance, we are taught it’s a violent nation bent on subjugation,” Lysithea says. 

“Ouch,” Claude says. He can read the look in her eye, though. “Let me guess. You don’t buy that?” 

“I don’t trust much of what the Church of Seiros says,” Lysithea replies, apparently emboldened by Claude’s immediate read of her. Claude could’ve guessed that. House Ordelia was, after all, defying the church’s mandate to keep outsiders out. 

“There a reason why?” Claude asks. Lysithea sets a searching gaze on him. She can’t seem to make up her mind on whatever she’s thinking about, though, so she turns away. 

“I’m tired. I’m going to sleep the rest of the way.” She shifts to sit more comfortably on the seat, leaning against the closed window. “Try not to make too much noise.” 

Claude doesn’t make any noise. Instead he pulls out his mother’s book and starts reading. It’s a long collection of stories, an anthology of oral history from all across Almyra carefully transcribed and bound together.  
  


According to the book, Fódlan was an empty and barren continent for a long time. As civilization thrived in Almyra, they found it difficult to press on beyond the boundaries of the mountains that now make up Fódlan’s throat into the uninhabitable lands that eventually became the bountiful nation of the Leicester Alliance. 

Monstrous creatures poured down from the north, making progression deadly for any exploring parties. It was common practice for hotblooded young warriors to test their mettle, travelling beyond the boundary to see how far they could make it before returning home. 

Then one day there came the fallen star, streaking through the sky so brightly that it could be seen all the way to Almyra. It crashed to the ground and kicked up a great dust that blanketed the Almyran skies. For months Almyra was set upon by dust storms, but when the sky cleared, they found the lands of Fódlan had begun to change. The scoured earth was bearing life. 

Interested in finding the source of these changes, the Almyran king arranged an expedition deeper into Fódlan. He left the throne to his daughter and set out with his party, ready to brave unexplored lands. 

The land outside stops moving past as the carriage slows to a stop and the driver announces their arrival. Claude leans over and shakes Lysithea’s shoulder. 

“Time to wake up,” he says. Lysithea curls into a tighter ball and makes a dissatisfied sound. 

“Five more minutes.” 

“Come on, or I just might have to carry you,” Claude teases. Lysithea sits up. 

“I’m awake.” 

“Your hair’s a little messy there,” Claude says, and she grimaces, using her hands to smooth it down as she rises to her feet. She goes to grab the bag again, then wavers, like she’s light-headed. “Whoa there.” Claude stands as well, hands hovering around her like he’s ready to catch if she falls. 

“I’m fine,” Lysithea insists again, puffing up her chest. She does abandon the bags, though, hopping out of the carriage. “Just leave them. I’ll find someone to take them in for you.” 

Claude ignores that directive, picking up all his bags himself and following after Lysithea. It’s a bit of a struggle to juggle everything, but he’d rather not leave his luggage unattended. 

She leads him inside. The first thing he notes is just how empty the halls seem. The Almyran castle isn’t exactly bustling with servants- they have a pretty self-starting attitude back home- but seeing a noble house with nothing at all is surprising. As the setting sun slants through the windows, he can see dust floating down the hallway, like this place hasn’t been given a good cleaning in a long while. Claude is about to ask about it when the sound of shoes clicking against stone comes down the hall. 

“Lysithea,” an older man with a monocle and a long coat calls as he rushes to meet her. “You’re back. No one warned me you were leaving,” he declares, like it is some major oversight. 

“I didn’t tell you because I am tired of everyone fussing over me,” Lysithea replies, somewhere between agitated and flustered as he puts his hand to her forehead. 

“I am just trying to keep an eye on you while we investigate your condition,” the man says, drawing his hand back. “Are you alright?” 

“I am fine,” Lysithea reiterates. 

“I’m guessing this isn’t your dad,” Claude interrupts. “Unless the family resemblance is really weak.” 

“Oh! Pardon my single-mindedness,” the man says. “My name is Hanneman. You must be Claude.” 

“The one and only. Are you Lysithea’s doctor?” Claude asks. Lysithea fixes Hanneman with a glare and he laughs, tugging his collar. 

“No point in hiding it now,” Lysithea declares, though her tone makes it clear to everyone she is still deeply displeased. “You explain it, Hanneman.” 

“Very well. I am a crest scholar. Have you heard of crests, Claude?” Hanneman asks. 

“My mom explained the concept to me really briefly,” he says, ruffling his hair. 

“They are an interesting field to learn about,” he says, eyes lighting up in delight at the chance to explain more fully. “The story goes that the goddess of Fódlan granted her power to ten elite heroes. These heroes passed this power down through their blood, and their descendents may still possess the goddess’ power today if they inherit a crest.” The corners of his lips turn down somewhat. 

“Of course, the modern system has its flaws, crest bearers being treated with prestige among the worst of them. It has lead to a great deal of suffering for many people. Lysithea included,” he says, sadly. 

“About thirteen years back, House Hrym of Adrestia attempted to annex itself from the Empire. House Ordelia and Hrym had always been allies, so Ordelia attempted to intervene on their behalf. When the rebellion failed, Adrestia installed controlling influences in Ordelia. Those influences used their position to perform experiments on the Ordelia children, to attempt to implant in them a second crest,” Hanneman continues, and there’s a tightness about him that wasn’t there before as he recounts the story, a quiet rage slowly blooming. 

“I was the only survivor of the experimentation,” Lysithea interrupts, as if Hanneman’s fire has helped to stoke hers. “It made me sick. When they realized how frail I seemed to be, they lost interest, and returned to the Empire.” She balls her fists, which seem to glow for a second with sparks of magic before she relaxes herself and the power dies down. “Hanneman is here to see if there’s anything he can do to help.” 

“Well. Shit,” Claude breathes, rubbing the back of his neck. He never expected to walk right into anything like this. “That’s awful-” 

“You better not pity me,” Lysithea interrupts again. “Just because you know the story doesn’t mean you get to underestimate me now.” 

“I wouldn’t do that,” Claude assures, raising his hands in a pacifying motion. “I may’ve _over_ estimated the Alliance, though,” he says. “They really let all that happen?” 

“The Alliance tends to bend the knee to Adrestian demands,” Hanneman says, shaking his head. “Adrestia’s lorded a debt over their heads since they helped to protect Fódlan’s Throat from an Almyran invasion in 961.” 

“Sticking with hundred year old debts?” Yeesh. This place. Claude sighs. 

“House Gloucester probably feared an assault from Adrestia as well. He’s been able to throw around much more weight in recent decades,” Hanneman says. 

“I hate noble politics,” Lysithea says, bitterly. “I cannot wait to be done with all of this.” 

“Done with it?” Claude asks. 

“When I’m done with my education at Garreg Mach, I am going to cede the rest of our territory to House Riegan,” she says, “so my parents and I can live out the rest of our lives in peace. At least, that’s my plan. So long as you prove to be capable,” she says. 

“Oof. You’re fixing me with a huge responsibility right out the gate, kiddo,” Claude says. Lysithea is about to protest the nickname when Hanneman says, 

“Speaking of Garreg Mach, I need to ask you a few questions, Claude.” 

“I’m all ears.” 

“Do you know if you have a crest?” 

“Who, me?” 

“Your mother had one, if I recall. It will help your chances significantly if you possess a crest. If not, we may need to come up with a contingency plan,” Hanneman says. “Come with me so we can go and check. Lysithea, you should go rest.” 

“I’m going to study,” Lysithea replies stubbornly, turning on her heel to go and do so. 

Hanneman leads Claude down the hall to a room that seems to have been transformed into a makeshift infirmary. There are all manner of investigative devices around, many of which Claude can’t even identify the function of. Hanneman lifts up an odd device and says, “Now, let me see your hand.” 

“What are you planning on doing?” 

“I just need a drop of your blood to analyze.” 

“Uh,” Claude replies, brows raising. 

“You know, I never considered how that might sound to someone from outside Fódlan,” Hanneman seems to realize, rubbing his chin. “The pattern of your crest can be determined through your blood.” 

Claude is wary, but he holds out his hand. Hanneman takes the sample quickly, but Claude winces anyways, pulling his hand back and rubbing it. Hanneman looks into the magnifier on the device, though his excitement quickly fades. 

“Your face tells me there’s bad news,” Claude jokes. 

“Yes. I am afraid you don’t have a crest,” Hanneman says. 

“Honestly, that’s kind of a relief. I don’t know how I feel about having god blood,” Claude jokes. 

“It does complicate things slightly. Duke Riegan might accept you without evidence of the crest, out of options as he is, but Garreg Mach will need stronger proof,” he says. “But fear not,” Hanneman adds, before Claude can even begin to fear. “I’ve been recruited to work as a professor at Garreg Mach. I should be able to falsify a positive test by exploiting the fact that Lysithea has two crests. At least until I can manufacture you an artificial crest.” 

“Artificial crest?” Claude asks. 

“That is my main area of research. I wish to bring the benefit of crests to everyone, so that they are no longer treated with such high regard.” 

“Pretty noble goal,” Claude says. And he might mean it. He thinks it’s a pretty roundabout way of enacting equality, but he knows that sometimes roundabouts are the only way. Too bad for Hanneman he intends on enacting change much quicker. “Should I leave you to your work?” 

“Yes, thank you,” Hanneman says. “But if you have any more questions about crests, feel free to come find me.” 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says, giving Hanneman a lazy salute before he heads out, hefting his bags up once more. 

Left to his own devices, he’s able to pick out his own room. He scopes out a few, testing their doors and windows before deciding on the best one. He rigs the window and door with traps, just a little safeguard against intruders. He’s only staying for the night, so it might be unnecessary, but he’d rather be safe than dead. 

After that, he falls into bed. Today’s been long and barely felt real. As he lies in the dark, he feels a little homesick. He reminds himself that it’s just as lonely there as in this empty room, and that the grass always looks greener on the other side. There’s a lot he still needs to do before he can take down the fence. 

Claude rises in the morning, not dead yet. That’s a good sign. He goes and carefully takes down his traps, packing his things back up in preparation for the trip to Riegan. It’s set to be a longer trip than the one from the shore to House Ordelia, so they need to get an early start. 

Lysithea seems to be ready to go on time, too, though the heavy bags under her eyes indicate she didn’t sleep as much as she probably should’ve. 

“You know, you’ll never get taller if you don’t sleep enough,” Claude chides as he hauls his things out to the carriage again. Lysithea has her own bags in tow. Given the timing of their trip, they’ll have to make way to Garreg Mach straight from Riegan. 

“I slept plenty,” Lysithea replies. “In any case, you’re not my father.” 

“Speaking of fathers, is Hanneman coming with us? Might get a little cramped,” he jokes. 

“He is going straight from here tomorrow, so that he will have time to compose his lesson plans,” Lysithea says. 

“That’s good. I like my incredibly long and boring carriage rides a little roomier,” he jokes. 

“I hate carriage rides,” Lysithea replies, frowning and crossing her arms. “Such a waste of time.” 

“They do take forever. I’m not used to it,” he sighs. 

“What do you mean?” She asks. 

“In Almyra, we usually travel by wyvern.” 

“You should’ve brought one with you,” she complains. 

“No offense, but I don’t think House Ordelia has the stables for a wyvern. They’re pretty touchy. Probably would’ve eaten all your horses, too,” Claude says. 

“It still would’ve been better than this,” Lysithea sighs. “At least I’ll have time to study,” she says. 

“You study a lot,” Claude notices. 

“There are many things to study,” Lysithea agrees. “I want to hone my skills and become independent.” 

“Aw. I remember when I went through that phase,” he teases. 

“Ugh, must you make everything into a joke?” Lysithea complains. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Claude laughs. He leans back, resting a hand on his knee. Lysithea grumpily pulls out her books, tugging one open and beginning to read. 

“...I’m jealous of you, you know,” Lysithea comments, after some time. 

“Huh? Why’s that? I mean, I know I’m handsome, but-” 

“Hanneman told me. That you don’t have a crest,” she says. 

“Oh, that. Yeah, no crest in this blood.” 

“People say crests are a blessing, but my life really would’ve been better without one at all.” 

“Hey, you’re still young. There’s a chance things could take a turn for the better,” Claude tries to cheer her up. And evidently fails, because Lysithea’s face falls. 

“My organs are deteriorating,” she informs Claude, relatively calmly considering the information she’s delivering. “Hanneman told me he doesn’t know how long I’ll live.” 

“Oh.” Damn. “I’m sorry.” 

“Forget I said anything,” Lysithea replies, burying her face in her book again. “I need to finish this book before we arrive.” 

For his part, Claude looks over notes on the houses of the Alliance. He doubts Duke Riegan will quiz him, but if he’s going to be playing heir, he at least needs some idea of what to expect from all the noble houses. Daphnel seems to be his mom’s favorite. According to her, her and Judith go “way back.” They’re not as politically important as they used to be, though. 

Gloucester is reportedly a “pain in the ass,” as well as a dominating force in trade. 

Goneril is the only one Claude could probably get away without reading about. The Alliance’s military powerhouse, the ones with their hands choking Fódlan’s Throat. Strategic reports back from their ongoing fight with Almyra have taught him that the current leader is named Holst and that he’s the youngest Alliance leader by far. Maybe Claude can beat his record. If there’s anyone Claude needs to worry about, it’ll probably be them.  
Edmund’s next on that list, since they often aid with fighting Almyra when their ships creep along the northern shore of the Alliance. Kupala is there, too. Claude knows about them because he’s heard of soldiers coming back with bounties of their weapons after a naval battle. Still, they’re a ceded territory. It might be a good idea to get in their good graces and seize their support. 

His mind’s busy drawing up political plans, mapping out avenues for gaining and maintaining allies, when he glances up briefly and spies something out the window. 

“What is _that?_ ” He asks, leaning forward in his seat so he can continue to watch the gargantuan structure as they slowly roll past it. Lysithea raises her head to look in turn, seeming unbothered. It takes Claude a moment to parse what he’s looking at. A tall building, sitting at a slant and clearly falling apart. The parts still intact, though, are made of completely smooth, obsidian-dark stone, with deep, geometric grooves. 

“Those are ruins,” Lysithea says, with the smugness of a young child who knows something you don’t. “From when the goddess still walked the earth.” 

“Right,” Claude says. “When did she, uh, stop walking the earth again?” 

“She was killed by Nemesis,” Lysithea says. 

“Nemesis?” Claude asks. 

“He was one of the goddess’ favored soldiers, along with the ten elites. He was corrupted by his power, though, and turned his blade against her in search of more strength. He killed the goddess while she slept and tried to take over Fódlan. Saint Seiros and the ten elites defeated him and restored peace.” 

“And was he always named Nemesis, or is that like a historical nickname?” Claude jokes. 

“I don’t know,” Lysithea replies, agitated. 

“That story still doesn’t explain the ruins.” 

“It’s the ruins of the civilization the goddess built,” Lysithea replies. “When she died, everything collapsed. Humanity had to start over. These kinds of structures are all over the place. There’s nothing in them anymore, though. The Church of Seiros has confiscated everything.”

“Well, that’s a little suspicious,” Claude says. 

“I agree,” Lysithea replies, looking back down at her books. 

Claude takes a piece of paper and a pen and scribbles for himself a rough doodle of the ancient building. 

Claude dedicates the rest of the day to political planning, scheming up poison ratios, and even a little bit of his own studying. He knows next to nothing about magic, so reading some of Lysithea’s tomes is enlightening strategically, even if he’s fairly sure he’ll never bother with it in practice. Too much of it seems faith-based and he hasn’t got a lot of that in anyone but himself. 

At some point he naps, and then as the sun begins to set he offers to trade out with the driver, who seems surprised by the offer. He’s given the map and a general direction to keep in and takes up the lead. Claude remains at the helm until they arrive in the Riegan Dukedom, just as the sun is creeping back up over the horizon. 

“We’re here,” Claude calls into the carriage, hooking an arm in the front window to tap the inside of the carriage. Lysithea wakes with a start from where she’s drooped over her notes asleep. 

“Already?” She yawns, rubbing her eyes and scooting closer to the front to look outside. “Get back in here. They’ll find it odd if the heir is driving.” 

“Seems like an odd line to draw,” Claude says, but he does pause the horses to trade back out with the driver. From there it’s a streamlined process, meeting with attendants of the house who take the carriage off their hands. Claude is forced to leave his luggage with the cart and does a wonderful job of hiding his nervousness about it. 

The servants lead him and Lysithea inside, though Lysithea is directed to a sitting room to wait while Claude is separated and brought to towards the Duke’s bedroom. 

“Duke Riegan,” one of the servants greet. “He’s here.” 

The Duke sits up, as best he can, as Claude enters the room. There’s an instant spark of recognition in his eyes. 

“Leave us,” he dismisses, and the servant is quick to follow the order, leaving Claude all alone. For a moment he stands casually, before remembering the manner people in Fódlan are supposed to have, and giving the Duke a bow that is slightly over-practiced. 

“Duke Riegan, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he greets. “I am Claude von Riegan. Here, as promised.” 

“I didn’t believe it was possible,” he says. “After Godfrey died and she didn’t return…” Claude remembers when his mother was given word of that. Silently and privately inconsolable, still refusing to tell him about the origin of that despair. He wonders if she ever felt as lonely as he did. “But you’re her spitting image.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been told we look alike,” he agrees, running his fingers through his hair. 

“Did she come with you?” He asks, and the want in it is so earnest that Claude almost feels a pang of guilt for him. 

“No. She told me to send her regards, though.” That’s a lie, but is there really any harm in it? He’ll never know whether she did or didn’t. In the days before he left, she’d made clear her opinion on Fódlan. She’d never be coming back. 

“Where is she?” He asks. 

Claude weighs his options carefully here. She asked him not to say, and it might hurt his aims in the long run, to tell the truth. But at the same time, he doubts the Duke will go to war over it. Maybe it will make him consider the option of opening things up more. And if worse comes to worst and the Duke tries to turn him away… It’s cold, but he thinks of his stock of poisons. Claude doesn’t want to have to lie to his grandfather. He wants to try to be open, to try to forge a real relationship. 

“Almyra,” Claude answers. There’s a beat, and Claude can tell by the way Duke Riegan pales that he’s made the wrong decision. “She’s married the king,” Claude tries to comfort, “She’s made a happy life for herself there.” He doesn’t want this bridge to burn before it’s even built. 

“My only daughter,” Duke Riegan says, with a cold rage, “Ran away from home to marry into that despicable country? The one that has beset our border for centuries?” 

“I wouldn’t really call it besetting-” 

“She missed her own brother’s funeral and neglected her family to stay with a warmonger. Then she sends me her bastard?” 

Claude curls his fists. He’s not much of one for anger, but that grinds against his nerves like nothing else. He can fear sparks of fury just behind his eyes, pain coiling tight in his chest. He forces a sympathetic look. The people of Fódlan lie through their teeth. 

“She didn’t hear of Godrey’s death until recently,” Claude says, with a shake of his head. “She felt awful. She was worried you wouldn’t want to see her again, so she sent me. She’d hate to see House Riegan unseated.” He steps closer, turning up his palms. “Please let me make amends on her behalf.” He can feel acid in his throat. 

Duke Riegan stares at him with piercing eyes, breathing slow, clearly trying to calm himself. Claude wishes his heart would stop, then feels deeply guilty for wishing that sort of thing. 

“Do you have a crest?” He finally asks. Claude feels that cold twinge that he is sure is common in Fódlan. Just hearing the tone of that question, he thinks he understands Lysithea a little better now. 

“I do,” Claude replies, forcing a smile. “I had a crest scholar working with Garreg Mach confirm it. Hanneman. I could send for his confirmation if you’d like.” 

Another moment of consideration.

“I’ll request such confirmation myself,” he says. “And I’ll accept you as my heir.” He doesn’t give Claude even a moment to feel relief before adding, “So long as you leave my dukedom immediately and don’t return until I’m buried in the ground.” He lifts a hand and motions to the door. “Get out of my sight.” 

“Yes, sir,” Claude replies, breezily. He feels far away. Like the second he steps out of the bedroom he’ll drop right off a cliff. He steps into the hallway and traces his steps back to the sitting room and almost a daze, heart hammering against the inside of his ribcage. 

“That was fast,” Lysithea comments from where she stands, looking over the collection of books provided for guests. 

“We’re being kicked out,” he informs Lysithea, before immediately turning around to go. 

“What?” Lysithea asks, hurrying after Claude. She’s huffing for breath by the time she manages it. “What happened?” 

“Outside,” Claude replies, a way of procrastinating the conversation. By the time they reach the steps outside and send an attendant for their carriage and driver, Claude’s managed to come back to himself. 

“Did he refuse to accept you?” Lysithea asks, in a whisper. 

“Oh, he accepted me alright. Just on the condition that I got out of his face,” Claude laughs. “My mom told me not to get my hopes up, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad.” 

“Claude… That’s not funny,” Lysithea replies. 

“I don’t mind it,” Claude says. He crosses his arms behind his head with a lazy smirk. “I expected it, really. Fine by me. Not having to bother with him makes my life a whole lot easier, actually.” 

Lysithea frowns. She seems to consider saying something, but she can’t find the words, so she lets it drop. She just reaches up to touch Claude’s arm lightly, then drops her hand and turns to wait for the carriage. 

The ride is awkwardly silent for a long while. Claude sits resting his head against the wall of the carriage, pretending to nap for as long as he can stand before sitting up and rifling through his things. Best to check that nothing got stolen or rigged while he was there. 

Lysithea watches quietly for a long moment, not even reading her books for the time being. She looks to have a busy mind. Eventually, she formulates the question she’s clearly been mulling over for hours. 

“Why did you come here?” Lysithea asks. 

“To take up my birthright, of course,” Claude responds. She scoffs. 

“You already know my past. Can’t I know the real reason?” Lysithea says, leaning forward slightly, hands planted on the seat for balance. 

“That is the real reason. It’s just the reason without detail,” he jokes, with a little flourish. 

“Claude,” she chides. 

“Sorry, kid. I just don’t tell just anyone my plans,” he says, shaking his head. “But I’ve got a dream I want to see through. A dream that’s just gotten broader since getting here,” he sighs, mostly to himself. 

“That last part,” she says. “You’re talking about crests,” she correctly intuits. 

“Lucky guess,” Claude replies, with a wink. 

“You want to get rid of them?” She wonders. 

“I’ll be honest with you, I haven’t decided _what_ I want to do with them yet. Learn more about them, mostly,” he says. “I think the stories about them I’ve heard so far don’t add up too well. I mean, who trusts a guy named Nemesis?” he cracks. “And the Church of Seiros is trying to keep the people of Almyra outside Fódlan for a reason. They’re hiding something.” 

“...I have to tell you something,” Lysithea decides. She nods to herself, as if confirming her own decision. “I want to go to Garreg Mach to get my education, yes. But I have another reason. I don’t trust the church either. I think… My memory is hazy, but I think the mages who experimented on me were part of the Western Church,” she says. “And I have to find out why. I have to stop them from doing it to anyone else.” She grips at the seat of the carriage. “If I have to live a short life, I at least want to take the system that let it happen down with me.” 

Claude stares at her with wide eyes, surprise almost clear on his face. 

“So I’ll help you,” Lysithea says. “With whatever it is you are trying to do, I will help you, so long as you help me.” 

He laughs, hanging his head. “Putting a lot of responsibility on me again,” he says. He lifts his hand, offering it to her. “We’ve got a rough road ahead.” 

“I’m no stranger to adversity,” she replies, lifting her chin slightly before taking his hand and gripping it. 

“That’s what I like to hear. Let’s get scheming.” 

The next week of their trip is spent on planning, though it turns out there’s little one can do in preparation before arriving at or gathering any information about a place. 

The rest of the time Lysithea spends teaching Claude the Church of Seiros’ history, all the legends and lore, quizzing him over little myths and historical dates to ensure he’ll blend in with the other students who have had this drilled into their heads. 

They’re still a few days out when they run into the Knights of Seiros, who agree to give them a lift the rest of the way on pegasus-back. Taking to the sky again helps ease some of Claude’s mounting homesickness. 

For all it represents in his mind, all the locked away secrets and locked up lockets, Garreg Mach is still beautiful. Approaching it, he lets himself be filled with a subtle hope, though not the sort an authoritarian church would hope for, he imagines. 

They are ferried from the pegasi to the main church swiftly, and while Claude isn’t particularly impacted by the religious iconography around them, he can see the way Lysithea falls so quiet she’s almost holding her breath, reverent on some instinctive level. 

“Every student meets with the Archbishop on arrival,” one of the knights informs the two of them, ushering them forwards to the door. They stick close behind, though, practically breathing down their necks. Where’s the trust, Claude wonders? 

The doors to the cathedral grind open, the clanking of great gears echoing throughout the entryway. Claude keeps his eyes trained on the slowly growing space between them that allow him to see through. The cathedral is larger than he could’ve guessed from the outside, even; it’s hard to see to the back, past all the pews and to what he presumes is a grand altar. When the doors finally open fully, the guards all but shove he and Lysithea forward. He has to work not to stumble over his feet. At this point, he wishes they would just put a knife to his back and be done with it.

He’s so caught up in looking for escape routes that he doesn’t even notice the figure at the back of the room at first, but when he does catch sight of her, he finds himself unable to look away. She stands serene, hands folded over her stomach, smiling placidly at the pair of them. Her gilded robes shimmer in the multicoloured light filtered through the stained glass windows. A grand headdress sits atop her head - not unlike a crown, Claude notes - and light green hair and eyes unlike any Claude has ever seen tie the whole thing together. Is that sort of look common here? He wonders if she orchestrated this meeting for the most possible impact. 

By her side is a taller but much less striking man, with dark green hair and those same alien eyes. Where the (presumed) archbishop regards Claude and Lysithea with warmth, his stare is full of nothing but suspicion. His arms are crossed over his chest and his brow furrowed. Claude wants to joke about wrinkles, but he feels like now might not be the time.

“Welcome to Garreg Mach, children,” the archbishop greets, and her voice is just as ethereal as her appearance. It seems to lilt, almost like a song. Once more Claude wonders how carefully she has constructed this appearance. “I am Rhea, the Archbishop. This is Seteth, my advisor.”

She motions at the stern man with a gesture Claude can only describe as somewhere between ‘dismissive’ and ‘floaty’. Seteth somehow looks even crankier at it, but says nothing. Claude wonders if he’s even allowed to say anything.

“You must be Claude,” Rhea continues, fixing her gaze on him. He suppresses a shudder. “I am so pleased to meet you. The news from Riegan about the lack of an heir was very troubling. Your appearance is nothing short of a blessing from the goddess.”

Claude crosses a hand over his chest and one behind his back, then bows. Just as Lysithea taught him was custom here. “Thank you, Archbishop. I’m feeling pretty blessed to be here, honestly.”

Rhea’s smile widens at that, finally pulling up the corners of her eyes. “And thank you, Lysithea, for assisting him in making his way here. House Ordelia has our gratitude.”

Lysithea bows as well, a bit deeper than Claude did. “It was no trouble, Lady Rhea.”

Even as she addresses Lysithea, Rhea’s gaze does not move from Claude. He feels a bit like a pinned animal in a classroom, just waiting for the scalpel to come down. 

“It is not typical for us to change house leaders this close to the school year’s start, but as you are the heir to the next ruling house of the Alliance, an exception has been made,” Rhea informs him. “You will be the head of the Golden Deer house. Please do try your best to foster strong bonds between your classmates, and help them all grow into exceptional young leaders.”

Claude nods. He’s content to leave it at that until Lysithea coughs, using it as cover to nudge him. He quickly bows again, deeper, the way Lysithea did it. 

“It’s an honour, Lady Rhea,” he replies, hoping his amusement doesn’t leak into his voice. “I’ll do everything in my power to live up to your expectations, I assure you.”

She nods, seeming pleased by that answer once more. Claude wonders what she would’ve reacted like if he hadn’t shown total submission. “You should go meet your classmates. Please, do not let us keep you.” She does that halfway dismissive, halfway supernal hand gesture again, this time in the direction of her audience. The guards start ushering them out without a second to spare.

The doors close again with that same rumbling sound, ready to dramatically welcome the next guests who are dragged before it. When he’s sure there are no longer eyes on him, Claude lets out the shiver he had been suppressing all along. 

He leans down to Lysithea’s level and whispers, “Something is definitely up with her.” Lysithea pushes his face away and says, 

“Don’t act like a child with a secret. Go meet the Golden Deer. I’m going to track down Professor Manuela to arrange my change of house,” she says. They’d talked about it on the trip over. It gave her the best access to try to learn about the Western Church, after all. 

“Are you sure you want to?” He asks. If held at knifepoint, he might confess to feeling a small wash of protectiveness. 

“Of course I’m sure,” Lysithea says, offended by the very idea that she might not be firm in her decision. “Stop wasting time.” 

“Sure thing,” Claude says, rubbing his cheek. They part ways from there. 

Claude heads towards the courtyard, when he overhears the sound of conversation. Heated conversation. One of the voices is familiar. He approaches cautiously, peeking around the corner to see Hanneman at the foot of the stairs with another man. He’s tall, broad, and scarred, and has his arms on his hips, clearly agitated. 

“This is ridiculous,” he complains, putting his hand to his forehead. “Can’t you try to talk to her?” 

“My apologies, Jeralt,” Hanneman says, “But it’s my privilege to work at the monastery. I would hate to see my new opportunity taken away for complaining. To debate with the Archbishop would surely be a career-ruining move.”

“Just had to come back here and be surrounded by all these pious-” He interrupts his own grumbling. “I just want to keep an eye on my kid. Is that too much to ask?” 

“I understand your frustration, but there is little I can do,” Hanneman replies. 

“I know she did this on purpose- Wait a minute.” Jeralt leans around Hanneman. “Kid, if you’re gonna eavesdrop, you could at least hide better.” 

“Oops, looks like you caught me,” Claude jokes. “I thought I was hiding pretty well. How’d you hear me?” He steps out from behind the wall. 

“I can echolocate,” he says, with a lack of humor so thorough it almost sounds like the truth. 

“Claude!” Hanneman enthuses at the same time. “It is good to see you made it.” 

“You know this punk?” Jeralt asks. 

“This punk,” Claude greets, “is the future leader of the Alliance, thank you.” He does a little flourish, coupled with a playful bow. He likes Jeralt, he decides. 

“Great. So I get to teach the nosy kid,” Jeralt says, crossing his arms. 

“You're the Golden Deer’s professor?” Claude asks. 

“I was aiming for the Blue Lions,” Jeralt replies, throwing Hanneman a glare, “But I guess I don’t have any say in it. So yep. Congratulations.” 

“Don’t let his lack of enthusiasm fool you,” Hanneman says, clapping Jeralt’s shoulder. “Jeralt is a peerless mercenary. He will make a great instructor.” 

“Don’t make promises on my behalf,” Jeralt complains, shrugging Hanneman’s hand off. “I mean, I won’t neglect the job, but.” He looks at Claude and just lets out a huff. “Whatever. Guess I’ve got lesson plans to go write.” He moves to walk past Claude, though he pauses to clap a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re going to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, practice first. That’s my first lesson.” 

When he’s out of earshot, Claude says, “Someone twisted his britches.” 

“He is agitated he wasn’t assigned to teach his child’s house,” Hanneman says, with sympathy. 

“Who’s his kid?” 

“Their name is Byleth,” Hanneman says. “I haven’t had a chance to meet them directly, but I’ve heard whispers of their reputation. ‘The Ashen Demon,’ they’re called.” 

“The Ashen Demon? Spooky,” Claude jokes. 

“I probably ought to go track them down. There’s a lot of buzz about their battle prowess.” He scratches his chin. “You likely have fellows to go meet as well, yes?” 

“Sure do. Better not keep them waiting any longer. Good luck, Professor Hanneman.” Claude gives him a lazy salute and heads out. 

“You as well, Claude,” Hanneman agrees. 

He finally pushes through the door out into the open air, staring out at the clusters of students who have formed in various corners of the monastery’s training grounds. In the distance he can hear the clash of training weaponry, the tell-tale sounds of practice combat. 

He notices a few people staring and murmuring. It sends a little jolt of anxiety through him, though he smiles lazily and ignores it, strolling out onto the grass and looking around, seeing if he can identify his housemates. Suddenly, from across the yard, he hears someone call in a loud, haughty voice, 

“You!” 

Claude turns to face the sound and is instantly greeted by a man who looks as loud as he sounds. He looks around just to double check the stranger couldn't be yelling at anyone else, which only seems to hasten the man on his personal warpath.

"Sorry. Do I know you?" Claude asks, with that innocence he's worked so hard at perfecting over the years.

"I would hope so," the stranger fumes, "given I am the man you have _stolen_ everything from!"

"Whoa. I must be sneakier than I thought," Claude jokes. "I got that one past even myself." Something clicks in his brain. "Wait. Are you the old house leader?"

"I am Lorenz Hellman Gloucester," he snaps, pronouncing each syllable more fiercely than the last. "You would do well to remember it, Riegan."

Claude's so distracted by Lorenz that he doesn't notice the short, pink haired girl sidling up next to him until she says, "Oh, Lorenz. Is that any way to greet our house leader? I'm sure he didn't mean to upset you."

"Perhaps he didn't _mean_ to, but the result remains the same," Lorenz all but pouts. "This untested, unproven man is being placed in charge of our future!"

The girl shakes her head and turns to Claude. "I'm so sorry about him. Lorenz is just feeling a little rejected after you swooped in and took up the role of house leader."

"I am not feeling _rejected_ -"

"My name is Hilda," she greets, speaking over Lorenz. Claude is fairly sure he likes her, too. "Hilda Valentine Goneril."

"Claude von Riegan," he greets, extending his hand to her and ignoring the way his blood runs colder at her last name.

“We know your name, of course,” Lorenz interrupts, with a grandiose hand gesture. “How could we not? You appeared out of nowhere. You’re all anyone in the Alliance has been talking about.”

“Aw, what? Little old me?” Claude jokes, hoping he comes off flattered rather than unsettled. “I’ll have to do everything I can not to disappoint, then.”

“Have you met the other people in the Golden Deer yet?” Hilda asks. 

“Besides you two? Not really,” he admits, deciding to keep his correspondence with Lysithea to himself for now, especially considering her inevitable transfer. 

“Oh! Well, you should know, they’re all very capable. Veeery capable,” Hilda smiles. “So much so, I’m pretty sure I’ll be entirely unnecessary for any missions or group work we might get assigned. So maybe you can use your leverage as the big leader man to make sure I don’t get pushed into too many difficult tasks? I’m a weakling, anyway.” 

This girl. She wasn’t even trying to appear earnest. Claude almost wants to sit her down and give her some tips. He snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, maybe...But probably not. You can’t skate by on goodwill forever, you know.”

“We all must do our part to contribute to the future of the Alliance, Hilda,” Lorenz scolds. “And any good leader wouldn’t give you even the barest false hope that such a thing was not within your obligations.” That’s coupled with a truly nasty glare at Claude. Claude can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Thank you for your help, Gloucester,” Claude teases. “Maybe we can get you elected as vice-president of the house or something, and your excellent ideas can be put into use.”

“Or,” Lorenz begins, already seeming quite satisfied with his response, “You could step down and allow me to take my rightful place as class leader.” 

“Ooh, sorry, not gonna happen,” Claude says. “Another great idea, though. Keep them coming.” He puts his arms behind his head as he walks past the both of them. “Want to help me find the rest of our class?” 

As if on cue, a voice rises from the other side of the courtyard, drawing all eyes to the fiery-haired source. “Hiiilda! Where’d you go?” 

“Monica,” Hilda calls in turn, waving her arm lazily to draw the other girl’s attention. Monica bolts across the yard like a cat on the chase, weaving between training students and skipping to a halt only just before bumping into Hilda. Hilda doesn’t seem the least bothered by the near collision. “We just met our new house leader,” she says, motioning to Claude. 

“So you’re the one who unseated cranky-pants,” Monica jokes, leaning on Hilda’s shoulder and prodding Lorenz in the ribs. Lorenz makes an indignant noise in response, bending away from her. “Nice to meet you. I’m Monica.” 

“Monica von Ochs,” Lorenz finishes, adjusting his collar. 

“That’s an Adrestian house, isn’t it?” Claude asks. “I didn’t expect to get transfers so soon. I mean, I figured I’d be popular, but this is a bit early.” 

“Who cares about House Ochs?” Monica asks, the little grin she’s been wearing the whole time flipping momentarily into a frown. 

“Monica was staying with my brother and me. She didn’t decide to enroll until the last minute, so we thought she should stay with me,” Hilda clarifies, reaching up to ruffle Monica’s hair. Monica beams once more. That’s odd, but Claude won’t question it further. He can just do a little research later. 

“I believe the others are waiting in the home room, where _I_ was to deliver our beginning of year speech,” Lorenz says, turning around to head in that direction. “Though I suppose that task shall fall to you, now,” he adds, the edge of bitterness only growing sharper. 

“No one warned me about any beginning of the year speeches,” Claude says, hiding his anxiety behind levity. Not that he’s not perfectly charming, but speaking before an audience isn’t exactly his favorite thing. Formal presentations don’t go so well when the audience hates you. 

“Hopefully you will not fail spectacularly, then,” Lorenz says, clearly hoping quite the opposite. “Unless you wish to delegate the task to me?” Claude wouldn’t call himself the overly competitive type, but his pride flairs a little at that. Nope, he’s got to show this guy up. 

“I’ve got this, Gloucester,” Claude assures. “Just give me a minute to make the rounds and read the room.” He pats Lorenz’s shoulder and moves ahead into the homeroom. 

Inside the classroom, several other students mill about, but the first two that draw his attention are a duo of girls, one of who is excitedly babbling, 

“-nd he taught me this technique that I’ve gotten sloppy at, so now I’ll get a refresher. There’s no one better to have as a teacher.” 

“Oh… I’ll try not to let him down,” the other replies, shaking her head. 

“You two are talking about Jeralt, right?” Claude interrupts. 

“We are,” the more enthused of the two says, whipping around. “I can’t believe we got him assigned to our house. I mean, I’m sad Byleth isn’t joining us, but-” She freezes, apparently realizes she doesn’t recognize the man she’s babbling to. “Hey, wait. Are you our new house leader?” 

“That’s me,” he says, offering a hand. She shakes it firmly, still more energized than strictly necessary. “The name’s Claude. Nice to meet you.” 

“Leonie Pinelli, the world’s greatest mercenary in the making,” she greets. “And let me just say, thanks for snatching the title from that Gloucester guy. I don’t know if I could’ve taken a whole year of him lording his position over me.” 

“He seems a little up himself,” Claude agrees, casting a look over his shoulder, finding that Lorenz has taken a seat at one of the tables, sadly looking over a paper. Probably the speech he was going to give. Claude would almost feel bad for the guy if he wasn’t so annoying. 

“More than a little,” Leonie scoffs. 

“I don’t think he’s so bad…,” the other one interrupts. She appears to immediately regret this the second attention is turned to her. 

“I almost forgot you were there,” Leonie laughs. “Come on. Introduce yourself.” She nudges the girl. 

“Uhm… Marianne von Edmund…” 

“Nice to meet you,” Claude says, offering a hand. She takes it with a surprisingly strong grip, but drops it half a second later. 

“Welcome to the Golden Deer,” Marianne says, staring down at the floor instead of trying to keep eye contact. “I’ll try not to get in your way…” 

“Hey, don’t worry about that,” Claude comforts. “We’re all supposed to be a team, right? Learn to work together and all that. Don’t put yourself down before we even start,” he says. He almost claps her shoulder, then thinks twice of it. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her,” Leonie says, with a broad hand motion. “I can kind of get being intimidated, though,” she jokes, putting her hands on her hips. “With all these bigshots, I’m kind of glad a random unknown guy like you is in charge. N-no offense, of course,” she corrects, quickly. “I’m random and unknown, too. Even more, since I’m not noble.” 

“You mentioned wanting to be a mercenary,” Claude agrees. “Is your family part of a mercenary band?” 

“No, my dad’s a hunter,” Leonie says. “Though I was kind of part of the town guard? I’m from Sauin Village. It’s this tiny place most people don’t even know about, on the way between the Edmund margravate and Riegan. There was apparently some territorial dispute like a hundred years ago and they decided just leaving the town ungoverned was better than fighting over it. Which means we don’t have to kiss the ground any nobles walk on, but also means we don’t get big fancy armies.” 

“So you had to protect yourselves,” Claude guesses. 

“Which is alright when it’s bandits, but stone spears and homemade bows don’t work great against the monsters from Ailell,” she sighs. Ailell? Claude hadn’t had a chance to come across that in all his reading yet. Might be important to look into. 

“And I’m going to guess Jeralt helped you guys out?” He asks. 

“Exactly.” She beams at the name. “He came through and helped save us. Then stayed a while to do repairs and taught me how to fight better. I knew right away I wanted to be just like him,” she says. “I learned he’d been a Knight of Seiros, so,” she makes a sweeping gesture. “Here I am.” 

“Impressive,” Claude grins right back. “Well, I’ll do my best to help you reach your goal.” He looks around. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to bid you goodbye for now. I still have to meet everyone else,” he says. “Still, we’ll get to talk again later.” 

“Yeah!” Leonie agrees. “I look forward to seeing you in training later. I’d like to try my skills against yours.” 

“Ooh, don’t get your hopes up about that,” he jokes, backing out of the conversation just in time to hear a chorus of gasps come up behind him from a couple other students. 

He turns around and is greeted by the sight of a buff blond lifting a bench over his head, with another couple students still seated on it. 

“Raphael, put us down!” Protests, an anxious sounding boy, gripping onto the bench, lacking the delight of his classmates. 

“I’m helping finding your pen!” Raphael (evidently), says. 

“I can look for it on the ground,” the other whisper-yells, face flushed as the whole classroom turns to stare. 

“You’re lifting that without any trouble at all,” Claude speculates as he approaches the scene. Raphael looks surprised that other people have noticed his antics, and starts to set the bench down. 

“Yeah!” He greets, while his friend just slumps onto the table and hides his face for a minute. “My muscles are rippling. I’m all jazzed up because the knights said we could start training soon,” he sighs. “Not soon enough if you ask me,” he laughs. Then realization, confusion, and then realization again, crosses his face. “Hey, I’ve never seen you before.” He’s working through this slowly. Claude gives him a minute to sleuth it out himself. “You must be the new house leader!” 

“Ah?!” His friend says, sitting up to look at Claude with wide eyes, glasses eskew. He corrects that quickly and stands up. “I-I’m so sorry Raphael caused a ruckus,” he says. 

“Don’t worry about it. I thought it was pretty great, honestly,” Claude says. “It’s good news we’ve got people as strong as you in our class. It means I don’t have to worry too much. I’m more brain and less brawn,” he cracks. 

“I’m all brawn,” Raphael laughs, “so I’m always glad to lend out the muscles.” He isn’t arrogant enough to pose, but Claude thinks he might be instinctually flexing anyways. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Raphael.” He offers a hand and Raphael shakes him like a rag doll. While he’s being rattled about, he asks the other, “And you are?” 

“Ignatz Victor,” he greets. “It’s nice to meet you. My parents were really excited to hear you’d be coming.” 

Claude gives him an odd look at that. 

“Oh! They’re merchants from around Riegan,” he clarifies. “They were really worried about old mercantile disputes opening up,” he says. “So political stability is good news.” At least his arrival has been good news for a couple people. It’s offsetting the almost-guilt he feels about Gloucester. 

“Glad to help. I’ll do my best to keep trouble from finding them,” he says. 

“I’ll owe you one for that, too,” Raphael says. “They’re watching my little sis, so their trouble’s my trouble.” Ignatz frowns, eyes sliding away from Raphael for a moment before he snaps back into the conversation. 

“Thank you for that. I’m looking forward to this year,” Ignatz says, though something in his tone makes Claude doubt that. Claude leans down and picks Ignatz’s pen up off the ground. 

“I’ll make sure it’s a great one,” Claude assures. Ignatz looks a little flustered as he takes the pen. He seems about to say something when Jeralt comes through the door. 

“Alright, everyone, in your seats,” Jeralt greets, tiredly. There’s a shuffling as everyone rushes to sit down, Raphael squeezing in on the end of the bench as Ignatz scoots to make room. “We’re going to begin classes today, because I’m not wasting time. But first we’re supposed to have a word from the house leader. So,” he motions vaguely, then drops into a chair at the front of the room. 

Claude walks up to the podium, calm and easy even as his mind is racing. He’s just needs to throw out a speech that makes everyone swoon. That should be easy, and not terrifying at all. He rests his palms on the side of the podium and takes a slow breath. 

“I only got the chance to meet a few of you before coming up here,” he begins, “And I’m already excited to spend the rest of the year getting to know you all. We’ve probably got a more exciting bunch than either of the other houses. That’s not surprising, though. The Golden Deer are known for their variation.” Lysithea rambled off the history, the fact that the Golden Deer accept more commoners than any other house, their focus on unity among chaos. 

“That means everyone here probably has their own motivations, their own goals, their own things to work towards. I want to say that I don’t want to let those differences make us separate. I want them to be what brings us together; a mutual desire to help one another. As house leader, I plan to make your goals mine as well, to help everyone make their dreams come true. I want to make these differences into our strength. The things we learn here will help us forge a brighter future, for ourselves, for the Alliance, and for all of Fódlan. So let’s make it count and show the rest of Garreg Mach what we can do. We’ll show them all to fear the deer,” he ends, with a wink. 

He abandons the podium to the sound of clapping. Despite the sweat dripping down his neck, he’s feeling pretty good about that. There’s a murmur in the room that has an ecstatic energy. It’s not enough to calm his nerves, but it’s enough to keep him _looking_ calm, and that matters much more. 

Hilda waves him over and he easily slides onto the bench next to her. From behind him, he hears Lorenz make a ‘hmph’ sound, but elects to ignore it in favor of listening to Hilda say, 

“That was great. I couldn’t give a speech like that.” She sounds like the very idea of it exhausts her. 

“I guess I’m just naturally charming,” Claude replies. 

“Alright, now let’s get started,” Jeralt says, moving back to the front of the class with a reluctant slowness. “We’ll start with the principles of battle.” 

Claude stretches as he stands up from his seat. Jeralt’s lecture was intriguing, even if Hilda and Monica did their best to distract him during it. He watches Jeralt erase the mock battle plan off the board and ponders the certainty with which Jeralt said everything. Like he’s been battling his whole life. Maybe he has. It seems like that’s something Fódlan and Almyra have in common. He doesn’t seem excited to be teaching about it, though. He wonders briefly if Jeralt and Nader would get along. 

“I can’t believe he already gave us an assignment,” Hilda sighs, breaking Claude out of his thoughts. 

“I’m not going to do it,” Monica decides. “It doesn’t interest me very much.” 

“You cannot begin to neglect your studies already,” Lorenz intervenes, apparently too incensed by such a statement to not butt in. “The year has only just begun.” 

“Claude,” a familiar voice interrupts, and Claude turns to see the taller man from earlier - Seteth, if Claude recalls - standing behind them. “You are required for a meeting of the house leaders.”

Claude sighs, stretching. He gives his companions a two-fingered salute, smirking. “Duty calls. I’ll see you all on the other side.”

He ignores the truly nasty glare Lorenz gives him and follows Seteth out of the classroom and to the second floor, to a room that seems to be intended for strategy meetings. Waiting inside are the other house leaders - apparently Seteth grabbed them first, or maybe they’d just gotten the memo beforehand. Claude doesn’t doubt that he’ll be behind on a lot of stuff thanks to his sudden arrival. Such was the way of things when you were a born outsider, he supposes.

There’s a weird energy between the other house leaders when Claude and Seteth enter, a tense sort of silence that breaks up when they spot Claude and his guide. 

“You must be Claude,” the girl greets, and her hair is the same stark white as Lysithea’s. Maybe it was common after all? “I am Edelgard Von Hresvelg, heir apparent to the Adrestian Empire and the leader of the Black Eagle house. It’s good to finally meet you after having heard so much.”

“And I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” the man by her side says, with a terse nod. “As I’m sure you realise, I am the head of the Blue Lions house.”

“Claude Von Riegan. Though it seems my reputation precedes me,” he jokes. “I’ll let you guess which house I’m in charge of. You can have three tries.”

“As House Leaders, you will be working with the faculty and each other in order to enrich the experience of the other students,” Seteth interrupts, giving Claude a vaguely disapproving look. “You will help organise events and work together in the field, leading monthly missions for the church. All students, as wards of the monastery, are expected to contribute to its upkeep and further its goals. Please do not disappoint Archbishop Rhea.” His eyes sweep over them, brow furrowed and jaw set. Claude finds himself thinking of a displeased cat. “I will leave you to introduce yourselves. I have business to attend to. When you are done here, close the door on your way out.” 

With that, he turns to go, air of haughtiness somehow cut off when he closes the door behind himself. Claude whistles.

“Wow. He’s like every grumpy teacher I’ve ever had,” Claude chuckles, shaking his head.

“Seteth is well-known for his loyalty and work ethic,” Edelgard replies, tone matter-of-fact and smile restrained. “But I do agree that it is far easier to act as oneself without him in the room.”

“Though he didn’t tell us exactly what we are supposed to discuss,” Dimitri says, frowning slightly. The two of them seemed so cautious, unwilling to show their cards. Claude understood, of course, but at least he did everyone the favour of pretending he didn’t. So, with the goal of getting some real emotion out of them in mind, Claude replies,

“He did, actually. We’re to introduce ourselves. Have a nice little chat. Though, to be fair, I think I could guess just about everything I need to know looking at the two of you...”

“What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” Dimitri demands, giving Claude a glare.

“Of course we’d hear all about your bloodline, but nothing about your attitude. Why is intelligence these days so limited?” Edelgard sighs, shaking her head. Claude laughs at the subtle rudeness; he’s not even sure she realises she’s doing it.

“See? Predictable responses. Especially you, your princeliness. Do you always get your feathers ruffled over every handsome rogue who insults you?” he teases.

“I was simply wondering what you meant. I am not a predictable person,” Dimitri insists. As he looks at Edelgard to gauge her response, he seems near flustered, even though she looks to be apathetic to the exchange. Claude takes a mental note of that. “And even if I were, it is better to be steady and consistent than chaotic and inflammatory.”

“You think me inflammatory?”

“You have done nothing to disprove the assumption. In fact, you have focused entirely on angering me.”

Claude tsks. “So self-centred. I was _also_ focusing on angering the pretty princess.”

“You’ll have to work a bit harder on me than you will with Dimitri, I’m afraid,” Edelgard smiles, and once more Claude wonders if she means it as an insult or not. 

“You cannot deny you were focusing on me more than her,” Dimitri insists. Apparently, they took turns ignoring each other, and Dimitri had focused his attention squarely on Claude for the moment. “You singled me out.”

“Oh dear. Should I be worried about the Blue Lions trying to hunt us poor, precious Golden Deer in retaliation for my careless insults? You should know we’re prey animals. It’s not a fair fight,” Claude laments, which, of course, only serves to make Dimitri look grumpier.

“This is between you and I as men, _not_ our respective houses,” he snaps, which actually makes Claude laugh. Dimitri flushes, doubling down with, “But if it’s a competition you want, you shall have it. The Blue Lions will not be bested so easily.”

“If you’re both quite finished, and have no intentions of introducing yourselves properly,” Edelgard interrupts, making for the door and brushing past Claude in the process, “I also have business to attend to. But please, don’t feel the need to put off your sparring until you have another audience. The training grounds are open if you’re that desperate.”

Claude watches her as she marches to the door and leaves, closing the door brusquely behind herself. It seemed every motion she took had a purpose. He is, despite himself, entirely intrigued. He doesn’t realise he’s staring until Dimitri clears his throat, snapping Claude out of his trance. Dimitri looks...almost apologetic, but his face doesn’t quite make it all the way there. It was as though there was a smokescreen, or his expressions had been smeared somehow - like they were there, but dulled, hard to discern. 

“I should be going as well,” he says. “I assure you that sparring - violence - was not my intent. However, if you should like to train together, I would not be opposed. And you should know I meant what I said about the Blue Lions being hard to best.”

“I understand what you’re saying. In any mock battles, I’d better watch my back, right?” he smirks. Dimitri huffs, shaking his head.

“No. Simply do not underestimate me, Claude.” He starts heading for the door, pausing after passing Claude to give him a contemplative sort of look. “Perhaps we should head to the training grounds after all.”

“No thanks,” Claude shakes his head. “You two aren’t the only busy bees. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Dimitri frowns. “A shame...Some other time, then. I will see you later, Claude. If you cause any trouble, be sure it doesn’t involve my house.” He exits, closing the door with a gentleness that approaches comical. Especially when compared with the way Edelgard had made her exit.

Claude stares at the door for a moment, then sighs. “It figures a strange place like this would have so many strange people,” he mutters. 

Well. No time to dwell on it. He leaves as well, purposefully making sure he closes the door in an ordinary way, like anyone else would do it. He always had to make his own humour.

The library is not as sprawling as Claude was expecting it to be - not like the one in his home - but it’s still pretty impressive. A lot of the texts are ones he’s never heard of before, even excluding those that were religious in nature. There was a rather impressive collection of Faerghan folk tales that he decides to read at some point in the future (did everyone know them, or were they regional? Better safe than sorry, he guesses), along with plenty of guides on fishing or cooking, not to mention texts on political offices, especially those in the Empire. There’s even plenty of church records, just out in the open for anyone to look at! Claude is sure anything really juicy would’ve been banned by now, but he still can’t believe the Archbishop’s leniency. Or negligence? Either way, maybe one day he’d thank her for her oversight, once he was sure she wouldn’t burn him at the stake for it.

He’s in the middle of examining some financial records on the shelf, debating how suspicious it would be to take them down, when someone interrupts him with, “Looking for something, son?”

Despite having been in active combat before, that scares the hell out of Claude. He jumps, nearly dropping the books he’s already picked up, and whirls around to face...

A little old man. Alright, cool. Yeah, not his proudest moment.

“Nothing in particular,” Claude smiles, trying to recover his footing. There’s an amused twinkle in the stranger’s eye that almost makes him want to blush. How could he have looked so silly? Ugh. Oh well. “Just marveling at the collection. They really have something for everybody, huh?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” the man enthuses with a sweeping hand gesture, almost knocking Claude on the arm in the process. “We have fiction, nonfiction, biographies, autobiographies, history, religious texts...Anything one could desire to know is kept here, in the heart of Garreg Mach monastery!”

That’s how libraries work. No, he decides not to say that. 

“And I desire to know a lot,” Claude opts for instead. “How many books can I take out at once?” 

“Trying to dodge old Tomas already?” The man laughs. “Just fooling. As many as you’d like, as long as you don’t lose them. Then I’d have to hunt you down,” he says, wagging his finger. 

“We wouldn’t want that,” Claude agrees. 

“It’s good to see a young man interested in his studies. So many of the students around here never set foot in the library,” Tomas says, turning and motioning for Claude to follow him. 

“More interested in being soldiers than scholars?” 

“Something like that,” Tomas agrees. “That must be why the Knights rarely enter, too,” he hums. 

Or they’ve all been thoroughly taught they know enough already. Claude’s starting to understand why the Archbishop’s so liberal with what she sets out.  
Tomas stops in front of a large book, bound carefully with wooden rings. “This here is the directory,” Tomas says. “I’ve been trying to archive everything. Slowly but surely. If you’re looking for something, you’ll probably be able to find it in here. Or you could just ask.” 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Claude says. “Did you archive everything yourself?” 

“Oh, yes. I’ve been working here for several decades. I know this place like the back of my hand.” 

“Can you point me to some texts on interterritorial disputes in Adrestia?” Claude asks, putting that claim to the test. 

“...Go on, don’t let my hard work go to waste,” Tomas laughs. “Check the directory.” He shoos Claude. “Hanneman delivered a pile of research texts to me that I have to cross reference and check for accuracy. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.” He shuffles off. 

It’s not in the directory, but the book does help Claude narrow it down. 

Adrestian texts are the most plentiful. Makes sense, considering the lengthy history, though he’d almost expect more. He starts poking through and notices that the history books don’t actually go back very far. Nothing written before or even during the war against Nemesis is on the shelves. He takes down some of the oldest books and even those have a few mysteriously missing pages. Interesting. He should take note of-

His studiousness is interrupted by a humming that instantly fills him with nostalgia. Its familiarity is so alien here that it almost chafes against him. He puts his book back on the shelf and follows the soft sound. 

Between two bookshelves towards the back of the library, a young Almyran boy stands on a ladder, putting books back in their places and humming. He knows the boy is Almyran because he recognizes the lullaby. A few words are different, but the melody is unmistakable; his father sang it to him as a child. 

He feels confusion bubble up, followed swiftly by anger. He looks around, like someone might sense that, and tempers his rage. 

“What’re you singing?” Claude greets. 

“Wha-?!” The boy says, jumping a little. The ladder wobbles and Claude quickly grabs it to stabilize it. 

“Whoa, careful there. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“No, I’m sorry,” the boy says, anxious. He looks over his shoulder at Claude and seems to relax slightly. But not much. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I can be quiet.” 

“No, no, I enjoyed your song,” Claude assures, stepping back. The boy starts to climb down. “Where’d you hear it?” 

“It’s…” He looks nervous, averting his gaze. “It’s just a lullaby.” 

“I thought so,” Claude says. “What’s your name?” 

“Cyril,” he says, quickly, though he seems surprised that Claude is asking. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Claude,” he says, offering his hand, which seems to bewilder Cyril further. He takes it though, shaking it with a firm grip. 

“Nice t’meet you, too. Uh… Did you need something? No offense, I’m just kinda’ busy,” he says. 

“I just wanted to talk. Are you a student?” Cyril looks kind of young to be one, but Lysithea is here, so who knows. 

“No,” Cyril says. “Not yet, at least,” he corrects, straightening up slightly, trying to look more confident. Claude commends him for the effort. “Shamir is teaching me archery. So I’ll be able to try out soon. ...If I can save up the entrance fee,” he sighs, looking back at his work. 

“How close are you?” He asks.

“About halfway. One or two more years and I should have it,” Cyril says. 

Now that doesn’t seem fair. Does it really take that long to save up that much? Come to think of it, he hasn’t talked to many commoners. He’ll have to look into this more, but he doesn’t have a great feeling. 

“Do you need any help with this?” Claude asks. 

“Huh?” 

“I was planning on looking around over here anyways, so I can put the books back while I do,” Claude offers. 

“I don’t know. I don’t want to slack off,” Cyril says, grimacing. 

“If anyone asks, I’ll say you already finished,” Claude replies, with a wink. 

“Oh.” He looks hesitant, but says, “Alright. Thanks. I’ll go work on something else, then.” 

“Not gonna take a break?” Claude asks, surprised. 

“No. I use my free time to study,” he admits. “Nobles get to dodge it,” he says, eyeing Claude as he does, “But there’s this test part to getting in, and Shamir says she can’t help me with that.” 

“Do you need help with that?” 

“Why do’ya keep offering to help?” 

“I’m just a helpful guy,” Claude jokes. 

“Well, I already have someone to help me. Bye.” 

That kid’s blunt. Claude respects it. 

He climbs up the ladder and starts to tuck the books away, humming an Almyran lullaby. 

In the end, he takes more books than is strictly necessary back to his room. Histories of the Western Church and house Hrym and a shockingly sparse biography of the Archbishop herself. He takes a few others, though. Ones on local legends and Alliance folk music, art histories of various territories, architectural texts, a bestiary, and, of course, an herbiary. He justifies it to himself with the argument that there are many things to know to blend in and to succeed here. A small local myth might endear him to someone. Understanding plants can and will save or end a life. 

Still, he has some sense of responsibility. He starts with the biography. 

The Archbishop Rhea was born in the year 1031. A great, great grandniece of the previous archbishop, Astraea, she was blessed enough to manifest a major crest of the divine hero, Seiros, which imbued her with the longevity considered necessary for occupation of the position of central authority of the Church. As Astraea’s health began to decline, Rhea trained at the monastery alongside the class of 1048 in preparation for her ascension. She led her class to victory at the annual Battle of the Eagle and the Lion. Later that same year, Archbishop Astraea passed on, leaving the church in Archbishop Rhea’s hands. 

Lady Rhea’s policies have largely followed the trajectory of her predecessors. 

Not creepy at all. Claude’s mind runs wild with theories. Maybe the good archbishop’s a bodysnatcher and Astraea and Rhea are one in the same, sacrificing her family in order to perpetuate her rule and… That’s a little too fantastical. And probably unfair. She just gives him the willies. 

Maybe rightly, given how old she is. These crests are hard for him to wrap his mind around. 148 years olds and she doesn’t look a day older than his mother. At this rate, she’ll probably live to be, what, 300, before trading off to the next eerie religious dictator? 

That raises another question, though. Who’s going to replace her? That family line has to be pretty diluted already. That’s six generations. Claude resolves to go search the library for an Archbishop family tree later. 

What next? 

…

Despite his better efforts to focus, he ends up falling asleep at his desk, reading about the feeding habits of giant Crawlers and the toxins produced by the mountain Bael. 

The morning greets him with a loud banging on his door. Claude jumps awake and nearly falls backwards in his chair, barely catching the edge of his desk to avoid tipping over. 

“It is not becoming of the house leader to oversleep,” comes Lorenz’s voice from outside. 

Claude stands up and stretches, yawning. He grabs his uniform, starting to change into it quickly. “I’ll be out in a second,” Claude assures. 

“You should be rising early. Your habits reflect on all of us, you know,” Lorenz says. “You should lead by example for our classmates.”

“I’m sure everyone will survive without me knocking down their doors at the crack of dawn,” Claude replies. 

“Survive, perhaps, but not thrive. Our environment must be rigorous,” Lorenz insists. 

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?” Claude asks, checking his hair in the mirror. “You sound cranky.” 

“I am feeling just fine. I’m simply attempting to remind you of your _stolen_ responsibility. Now if you could hurry-”

Claude pulls the door open and almost runs directly into Lorenz, pausing just in time. Lorenz takes an instinctive step back, eyes wide. He clears his throat. 

“Seteth has requested the presence of all of the students,” Lorenz says. 

“Then what’re standing around here for? You’re too chatty, Gloucester,” Claude jokes, moving around Lorenz to go. 

“Wh- You were the one who rose late, don’t try to shift the blame to-” 

“Who can really say who’s fault it is?” 

“I can! It’s most certainly yours,” Lorenz complains.

“We don’t have time to complain,” Claude says, speeding up. Lorenz releases a tormented sigh, matching pace without difficulty thanks to his ridiculously long legs. Honestly, what’re they feeding people here? 

“We need to get the others,” Lorenz says. 

“You didn’t wake them up yet?” Claude asks. 

“That’s your duty,” Lorenz replies, turning his nose up. 

“I just thought you were keen on stealing it from me,” he teases. 

“I am not going to allow you to slack just because I deserve the position more.” 

“Hey,” Hilda yawns, from where she’s pulled her door open. “You guys are being really noisy out here. A girl needs her beauty sleep, you know.” 

“Yeah, have you guys considered quieting down?” Monica asks, approaching from inside the room and propping her head on top of Hilda’s. Claude raises his brows. 

“Sorry, sleepyheads, but it’s time to get up. We’ve got a meeting with grand grump himself.” 

“Seteth?” Hilda asks, tilting her head. 

“I believe we are going to be given our first mission,” Lorenz replies. 

Monica gasps and turns around. “Mari, did you hear that?” She calls. She retreats into the room, and then returns, dragging Marianne out around Hilda by the hand. “We have our first mission. Let’s go!”  
“O-oh,” Marianne replies, looking back at Hilda helplessly. 

“I’ll catch up in a minute, Marianne,” she assures, with a little wave. 

“Sleepover?” Claude asks, amused. 

“Hehe… They were helping me with my homework,” Hilda replies, twirling her hair around her finger. 

“So you did it after all?” Claude asks. 

“Only so mister prissy-pants here wouldn’t lecture me about it again,” she says, winking. 

“Mister- Pardon me?” 

“But it was really hard,” Hilda sighs. “And neither of them understood it at all. Do you think you can help me next time, Lorenz? You’re really smart, right?” 

That stops him in his tracks. “Oh! Yes, of course,” Lorenz says. “I am always willing to lend my aid to someone in need. I have an eye for strategy,” he brags. 

“I’m so happy,” she enthuses, smiling brightly. “Let’s schedule a time after this mission.” 

“Of course.” In a much better mood now, Lorenz turns and takes off quickly. 

“Wow. You played him like a fiddle,” Claude jokes, the second he’s out of earshot. 

“Huh? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hilda says, putting on her best vapid smile. “I’m just really simple and not really cut out for this planning stuff.” 

“Suuure you are,” Claude jokes. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. As long as you don’t try your tricks on me, that is.” 

“No promises,” Hilda beams. 

“A group of bandits have taken up position in the Red Canyon,” Seteth explains, as he motions to said canyon on the large map before them all. “They have been harassing local villages before retreating into the ruins, where town guards are hesitant to travel.” 

Claude glances around, reading the room. There appears to be no confusion on anyone’s faces. That can’t be good news. The Red Canyon… That was where the goddess was slain in those old stories, wasn’t it? He searches for Lysithea in the small mob of students, and finds her standing close to Edelgard, though she’s mostly hidden behind the tall and absolutely brooding figure at the princess’ side. 

As Claude sizes the man up, his gaze suddenly flicks over, meeting Claude’s eyes. A shiver travels up Claude’s spine. He smirks before turning his attention forward again. The gaze doesn’t linger, at least. 

“It is the obligation of all the affiliates of the Church of Seiros to lend aid to the people. As such, we will be sending your combined forces to take care of the threat.” 

“No offense,” Jeralt interrupts, “But the year’s just started. Do you really think the whelps are ready for this kind of thing yet?” 

Seteth fixes Jeralt with a gaze that could turn a man to stone. “I think that everyone here has demonstrated their individual competencies enough to have been accepted into the school, yes.” 

“Do you not have confidence in your students?” A woman, presumably the Black Eagles’ teacher, asks from across the room. “I know mine are more than capable of handling it.” 

“Do you, Manuela?” Hanneman asks. “Or do you intend to throw them haphazardly into the fray?” 

“Oh, right, like your strategy will be so much better, you boring old bookworm,” Manuela replies. 

Jeralt shakes his head, seeming to regret starting this conversation. 

It at least gives Claude time to look around again. 

Dimitri’s stood behind Hanneman with a vacant stare, like he’s trying to block out the argument happening in front of him. He’s flanked by a short man with a messy bun and curled lip, who looks seconds from snapping, and a taller man with white hair, who looks between his fellows idly, like he’s searching for confirmation that this is as ridiculous to them as it is to him. A redheaded man raises his brows at the white-haired one, and they share a moment of solidarity. 

There’s another person standing somewhat apart from the other Blue Lions, looking mostly uncomfortable and confused. 

Claude doesn’t make the mistake of looking at Edelgard’s bodyguard again, but does look at the man to her left, who seems to be watching the debate with both enthusiasm and bewilderment. Edelgard herself looks completely desensitized to this. 

“That is enough,” Seteth, mercifully interrupts. “You will be going on the mission. The instructors will be going as well, to keep an eye on the students. Make your preparations. We do not have time to waste when people’s lives are in danger. Set out by sunset and use this first mission to demonstrate your house’s skills.”

“So, teach, what’re we going to do?” Claude asks Jeralt, following him out of the room. Claude set all the other students out to start preparing their weapons and armor, so now it’s all strategy. 

“What we’re going to do,” Jeralt says, “is you’re all going to stay back while I take care of the bandits myself.” 

“As nice as that sounds, that’s not good teamwork,” Claude chides. “We’re supposed to be getting practical experience, remember?” 

“Right,” Jeralt says, unamused. He stops and looks down at Claude, then sighs. “Fine. I’ve been to Zanado before. Crawlers have tunneled between lots of the ruins. We can probably get the jump on the bandits going through there. ...If we’re quiet.” 

“That’s a risky strategy. I don’t know how I feel about it,” Claude says, thinking back to the descriptions of unlucky travellers being gobbled up by Crawlers he read just last night. 

“We’re getting practical experience, right?” Jeralt asks. “Consider it stealth training.” 

“Well, when you put it that way…,” Claude says. “Let’s give it a try.” 

“No matter what the other houses are doing, we’re not competing,” Jeralt reminds, leading the group across the increasingly barren land towards the canyon. They’ve all fallen into line on horseback. Ignatz is sitting behind Claude, arms wrapped around his waist. Lorenz’s horse carries Raphael, Marianne’s horse carries Hilda, and Monica is riding with Leonie. “This is a real battle, not a game. We’re trying to get everyone out of there alive.” 

“We must still do our best to show our dominance,” Lorenz replies. “It will not do if we allow the other houses to take all the credit.” 

“Save your pride for another time, Gloucester boy,” Jeralt says. Claude laughs. 

Lorenz balks, then is rattled further by Raphael clapping him on the shoulder, nearly tossed from the horse by the force. 

“There’s no need to worry! With me, we’ll be cleaning up in no time,” Raphael laughs. 

“Raphael, you have to be more careful,” Ignatz chides from behind Claude. “You’re going to knock him over.” 

“I would not be so easily unseated,” Lorenz replies. 

“No, of course not,” Claude agrees. 

“Yeah! Even though he’s scrawny, he’s tougher than that, right?” Raphael asks, shaking Lorenz’s shoulder. Lorenz grits his teeth as he holds on for dear life. 

“Raphael, you should keep it down,” Marianne warns, softly. “You’re going to scare the horses.” 

“I am?” Raphael asks, like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Sorry, horsie!” 

“More importantly, you’re going to let the bandits know we’re coming,” Leonie reminds. “We’re trying to be stealthy, remember?” 

“Boooring,” Monica complains. “Why can’t we just storm in again?” 

“They’re armed and dangerous,” Leonie says, looking over her shoulder at Monica. “That’s the surest way to get hurt.”

“I’m not scared. Especially when we have Mari,” Monica says. 

“M-me?” Marianne asks, bug-eyed. “No, I… I’ll just let you down…” 

“If you’re all so confident, can I just wait outside?” Hilda asks. 

“Why don’t we all stop talking?” Jeralt asks. 

The group grows quiet and moments later, the canyon comes into view. 

It isn’t red. That’s the first thing Claude notices. The next thing he notices are the giant structures rising from the ground, some tilted precariously over cliff’s edges that have apparently atrophied with time. He recognizes them, of course, as the same ruins he’s already seen across the land. The same deep grooves carved into the buildings. They’re even more dilapidated here than anywhere else, though, as if there were some great struggle. 

The horses of the other houses come into view next. Each class had been expected to forge their own route, but it seems they were all equally efficient. The path to Zanado is quite short. 

“Dismount,” Jeralt orders. The students all follow the command and tie their horses up. 

Ignatz pulls the bows from the horse’s back, a slight tremble in his hands. 

“You alright there?” Claude asks. 

“Huh?” Ignatz asks, looking at Claude, then pushing his glasses up. “I’m… I’m fine,” he says, rather unconvincingly. 

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Claude asks. He can recognize it too easily. He still remembers his first battle. Out at sea among the soldiers, trying to steady his hand as the boat pulled up alongside one of Goneril’s vessels. 

“No. I’m fine,” Ignatz insists again. His resolve quickly crumbles under Claude’s gaze, though. “Oh, alright. I just- I don’t know if I can do this.” 

“It’s our first fight together,” he says. “It makes sense you’d be nervous. But we’re not in this alone. I’ll take care of you. Just stick by me.” 

Ignatz swallows and nods. “I will. I’ll try to protect you, too.” He grabs his bow and fills his quiver. He murmurs to himself, “Goddess, protect us.” 

Claude turns his attention back to Jeralt. He’s raised his hand to capture a member of the Blue Lion house’s attention. Byleth, Claude is guessing. The same one with the confounded stare from earlier. Jeralt makes a series of hand motions at them. Byleth responds in kind. 

“What’re you doing there?” Claude asks, intrigued. 

“Let’s focus on the mission at hand,” Jeralt replies, turning to start leading the class. 

“Touchy,” he says. Claude looks at Byleth, who has turned to the other lions and seems to be beckoning them to follow Jeralt as well. Hanneman seems to contemplate. Byleth starts to follow Jeralt anyways. Dimitri looks alarmed and follows them, which causes a chain reaction of all the lions falling in step behind him. That’s one way to move a crowd. 

Looking past the lions, Claude sees Edelgard staring at him. She regards him for a moment. Claude waves and she raises her brows. Then she turns to her minion and says something before they turn and lead the eagles in the opposite direction. 

“Byleth, you must wait for the instruction of our professor. Why would you-” Dimitri protests as he catches up with Byleth, who has made it most of the way to the deer by now. “Ah, hello, Claude.” 

Byleth moves past Claude and goes straight to Jeralt. They don’t exchange any words, but Jeralt seems contented. 

“Afternoon, his highness,” Claude greets. “Should we play good classmates and introduce our houses?” 

“Oh, yes,” Dimitri says. “This is Felix, Sylvain, Ingrid, Dedue, Annette, Mercedes, Ashe, and,” he motions to each student in kind, then to Byleth, “Byleth.” No surnames. That’s a shame. He can figure it out from there later, though. He looks at each. 

Felix is hovering near Dimitri, though he looks quite disgusted by the proximity. He already has his blade drawn. Sylvain has his hands on his hips and a look in his eye like he doesn’t quite care where he is. He looks around Claude to watch Monica, who’s decided to make a great impression by trying to steal Lorenz’s lance. Ingrid’s calmer than Felix, but somehow more severe. She watches Monica, too, with significantly less humor. Dedue willfully ignores that this is happening, choosing to help Ashe adjust his armor instead. Ashe looks around with a certain wariness, a hypervigilance that only comes from experience. Despite that, he looks almost more nervous than Ignatz. Annette and Mercedes are in deep conversation about something. Mercedes is almost too at ease, but Annette is clutching a tome tight to her chest, betraying an anxiety she isn’t showing on her face. 

“Thanks,” Claude says, heading towards the caves. 

“Wait,” Dimitri says, following. “Aren’t you going to do me the same courtesy?” 

“I asked if we should, I never said I would,” Claude teases. 

“Why would you-” Dimitri huffs. “You’re just trying to get a rise out of me again.” 

“It is pretty easy to get you worked up,” Sylvain interrupts. “You have to take it easier.” Dimitri practically pouts. “Or else you’ll get wrinkles,” Sylvain warns. 

“Don’t gang up on His Highness with the other house’s leader,” Ingrid chides. “He’s our prince. You should show him a little more respect.” 

“Ingrid, you know how I feel about that,” Dimitri says, frowning deeper, if that’s at all possible. “We’ve known each other too long to bother with all those formalities.” 

“There’s no point trying to make a good impression for the Boar anyways,” Felix interjects. 

“Felix, you shouldn’t be so mean to Dimitri,” Mercedes says, apparently having been tuned into the conversation all along, seemingly to the surprise of every single one of the lions. 

Now that Claude’s initiated a team-wide conflict, he decides to extract himself from the conversation and catch up to Jeralt and Hanneman at the front. Dimitri’s too occupied to notice. 

“Are you certain this is a wise idea?” Hanneman asks, looking at the cave nervously. 

“The bandits are probably guarding their fronts,” Jeralt replies. “We have a better chance of getting the jump on them if we head this way.” 

“We may have to contend with the monstrous creatures that dwell here,” Hanneman points out. 

“The students have to learn to take care of them some time if the church is insistent on using them as cannon fodder,” Jeralt replies, shaking his head. 

Byleth tilts their head inquisitively. They open their mouth as if to ask something, then notice Claude watching and close it quickly. 

“They’re similar to the creatures at Ailell,” Jeralt confirms anyways. “At least in how big and resilient they are. Crawlers dig out of the ground, though.” 

Byleth’s eyes widen significantly. 

“Right. So we have to be quiet,” Jeralt says. “Not that you’ll have a problem with that.” 

Byleth nods, surprise not lessening. 

“Don’t look so scared,” Claude says. “We’ve got a bunch of competent soldiers on our side.” 

Byleth looks around Claude, to where Leonie and Raphael seem to have gotten wrapped up in the lions’ friendly argument, Monica under one of Raphael’s arms. They don’t look convinced. 

Claude laughs. “I see your point. But have a little faith.” Maybe he should be playing house leader, though. “Everyone, come on. Fall in formation. What’d teach say about being noisy?” He asks. 

They reach the mouth of one of the jagged caves. The deer cluster around Claude. Marianne nervously clutches Hilda’s shoulder while Monica excitedly clutches Marianne’s arm. 

“No one make a sound while we’re inside,” Jeralt instructs, already lowering his voice. “Move slow and stick together. Hanneman, give us some light.” 

Hanneman follows the instruction, creating a ball of light in his hand with a smooth few hand motions. He and Jeralt lead the way in. 

Ignatz gets between Claude and Raphael. Lorenz sticks surprisingly close as well, lance at the ready. A hush falls over them as they inch further into the cave. Hilda’s nose wrinkles at the smell of damp and she carefully steps over a small puddle. They creep further into the darkness, the light behind them slowly disappearing. Hanneman sticks close to the wall and the students follow suit. 

Marianne stumbles. The whole troop pauses, breath held. 

“Professor,” she whispers, voice meek. 

Hanneman turns, and the light catches against a skeleton beneath Marianne’s foot. 

She yells, which startles Ignatz into a yelp. 

“Oh, oh no,” Marianne says, “I’m so sorry-” 

The ground rumbles. 

“Dammit,” Jeralt says. “Weapons up.” 

A crack like thunder rumbles out as the wall splits. Hilda grabs Marianne and pulls her out of the way, just as the maw of the giant Crawler emerges from the stone, mandibles gnashing. 

It makes a terrible clicking sound, then withdraws back into the wall. Claude can feel it burrowing underfoot. 

“Oh no, no, no,” Annette murmurs from the further end of the group, near musical in her panic. 

The Crawler splits its way out of the ground next, pushing rock up in its path. Raphael stumbles back away from it as it rises. 

Byleth drags their sword against the wall, creating a sharp sound. The worm turns to the noise and dives, Byleth narrowly ducking and avoiding its jaws. 

That distracts it from its previous target and exposes it, but now it’s too close. Claude’s heart is in his throat. It trashes and snaps and Claude moves away in a panic. He has to build distance, he has to run. 

He remembers too late that Ignatz was practically clinging to this coattails. He turns around and sees Ignatz pressed against the wall fearfully, rattling in his boots. 

“Over here,” Claude calls, loosing an arrow that burrows into its hide, and oh why did he do that, oh, he’s going to die, he’s going to-

The creature launches itself forward, only to have its jaws locked by a bracing lance. Sylvain stands in front of Claude, though the weight of the creature causes him to skid backwards, him and Claude pressed against the wall together. Claude gawks. Sylvain’s holding this thing back and barely seems to be breaking a sweat. 

“Come here often?” Sylvain jokes, voice strained, which is almost comforting. 

Lorenz drives his lance up into the beast’s flesh, beneath one of its horrible ridges. As Jeralt moves to help the trapped duo, the other students finally close in, setting upon it with their blades and lighting the room with magic. 

The Crawler screams and tries to retreat, but Hilda brings her axe down in a heavy swing, burying it in the creature’s head. 

“Ugh, now I’m all sweaty,” Hilda complains. 

“Move,” Jeralt orders, hand on Claude’s back, “before more come.” 

They abandon the cautious creep through the cavern in favor of racing to the other end, wrapped once more in sweet sunlight. Claude feels a little nauseous.

Raphael sweeps a dazed Ignatz up in a hug and twirls him around. Hanneman fusses over his students alongside Mercedes, checking they’re all alright. 

“Everyone alright?” Jeralt asks. There’s no unified answer. “We still have a mission to do. Come on.” He starts to lead the group forward again and they follow. 

Entry to the ruins from behind is easy. Almost too easy. There’s not a patrol, not even a sound. The base seems empty, some goods left abandoned on the ground. 

“Shit, did they-” Jeralt begins to ask, when there’s a voice from outside. 

“And you shall remember the name Ferdinand von Aegir!” 

Right. The Black Eagles. 

They make their way out the front, where their opposing house have the bandits in chains, defeated. 

“It took you two long enough,” Edelgard says, a subtle smug smirk creeping across her face as she looks at Claude and Dimitri. 

“Thank you for acting as bait,” Edelgard’s brooding ally says. “These fools heard the ruckus and fled right into our trap.” 

“Calling it a trap makes it sound so ignoble!” Ferdinand (Claude is guessing by the voice) complains. “We were simply doing our duty.” 

“By trapping them.” 

“You stupid brats,” the thief before them complains. “I’m going to-” The eerie man’s sharp glare is quick to shut him up. 

“To use our misfortune in such a way,” Dimitri says, frowning and shaking his head. “Truly cruel. I would never do something like that to you.” 

“Which is why you lost,” Edelgard agrees. 

“I have to admit, that was a pretty clever trick,” Claude says. “Unfortunately, now I’m going to have to get you back.” 

“Are you threatening her majesty?” The death-as-man inquires. 

“Calm down, Hubert,” Edelgard instructs. “I would like to see him try.” 

Hubert looks displeased. He sizes Claude up. “Since we did all the hard work, you have the honor of cleaning up for us,” he decides, with a cruel smirk. He motions at the thief. 

Dimitri steps forward and hefts the thief onto his shoulder with little trouble, in a bit of a huff as he marches towards the other bandits. 

“These damned kids,” Jeralt complains, dragging his fingers through his hair. He goes to help, too. 

“Are you alright?” Comes a familiar voice.

Claude turns to face Lysithea and smiles. “Now aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Yeah, I’m fine. Probably going to be a little bruised up.” 

“Your plan was clever,” she admits. “What happened?” 

“Unexpected complications,” he answers, vaguely. “You guys cleaned up fast.”

“Of course we did,” Lysithea says, prideful. “I was helping, after all.” 

“How is the rest of your team?” Claude asks. 

She looks at them, watching everyone escort the bandits to the horses. “Completely foolish,” she decides. 

“Really?” Claude asks, amused. 

“Yes. Don’t let their appearance fool you. That’s not to say I don’t like them. It was just unexpected.” 

“No, I think I could’ve guessed that,” Claude says, watching a blue-haired eagle try to shake awake his sleeping friend. 

“...Maybe you’re right,” Lysithea agrees. 

“How have things been going besides that?” 

“I haven’t figured anything out yet. But the year is still young,” Lysithea says. “We should meet each week to compile our information.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

“Uhm, Claude,” Ignatz interrupts. 

Claude shares a glance with Lysithea and she shrugs before going to rejoin her house. 

“I just wanted to say thank you for saving me earlier,” he says. A guilt settles in Claude’s gut. Does he deserve a thanks for that? He was just correcting his own mistake. 

“That’s what teammates are for,” Claude says. 

“I just felt bad. You said I should stick with you, but when you moved, I froze up… Then you had to put yourself in danger for me,” Ignatz says, looking down. “In the end, I didn’t even fire a single arrow,” he says, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

Claude rests a hand on Ignatz’s shoulder. “You’re being way too hard on yourself,” Claude comforts. “This was our first fight. And it wasn’t even supposed to be against that thing which was, by the way, awful. I can’t blame you for freaking out. I think everyone did.”

“They at least jumped in. I think… What if I’m not cut out to be here?” Ignatz asks. “I don’t want to get anyone hurt.” 

“Making mistakes is pretty normal. We just all have to have each other’s back,” Claude says. It’s an odd thing to say. Camaraderie weighs on him like clothing drenched from rain. “You have the conviction. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t care. But you do. Don’t expect to be the best fight right out the gate. We’re students for a reason, you know.” 

“I guess you’re right,” Ignatz agrees. “...Do you think we could train together?” 

“Of course,” Claude agrees. “Let’s talk about it when we get back.” 

“Right.” Ignatz nods, trying to look determined. He heads off as well and Claude finally rejoins the bandit-gathering effort. 

“Stupid move you pulled back there,” Jeralt chides, when he finds himself beside Claude. 

“Your kid did it too, teach,” Claude reminds, smirking. 

“They can handle themself,” Jeralt says, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, making the wrinkles there more pronounced. 

“And I can’t?” Claude jokes. Jeralt huffs and looks away. “Speaking of Byleth, though. What was that thing you were doing earlier?” 

“You’re still on that?” Jeralt complains. 

“I’m curious,” Claude says. “You were talking with your hands, right? Can you teach me? Or the house at large, even.” 

“I already have to teach you brats so much. You want to add to my workload?” Jeralt asks. 

“Isn’t it your job to enrich our minds?” Claude asks, feigning innocence. 

“Fine. I’ll do it. If you do me a favor, too,” Jeralt replies, crossing his arms. 

“What kind?” 

“...Keep an eye on Byleth for me. Check in with them,” Jeralt says. 

“You can’t do that yourself?” 

“Not without some trouble, no.” 

“Wanna explain why?” 

“Do you want to keep racking up owed favors?” Jeralt asks. 

“Maybe.” 

“Stop being so nosy,” Jeralt complains. 

“Fine, fine. I’ll make friends with them.” 

Jeralt sighs. “Thanks. Now go round the other deer up. We need to get back.” 

“Got it.” Claude hops to it, and makes the rounds. 

The three houses go their separate ways again, making the trip back to Garreg Mach. 

  
  
  
  



	2. Mutiny in the Mist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm still persuading myself even now. I probably will be for the rest of my life. If I let myself regret what happened, he will have died for no reason."
> 
> An uprising mounted in western Faerghus reopens old wounds for the Blue Lions as a few familiar faces turn up. With the lives of militia and all the little towns from Garreg Mach to Gaspard at risk, Claude searches to cut through the fog and learn more about the Tragedy of Duscur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a hot minute to get out because of life circumstances, but it's finally here!

“You three need to be more responsible.” Seteth is glaring the three professors down. Hanneman presented him with an agonizingly honest mission report and Claude desperately wants to teach the old man the art of selective information. Though, given Hanneman’s earnestness, he thinks the lesson would fall on deaf ears. 

“You’re including me?” Manuela asks. “What did I do?” 

“You realized your allies were in danger and prioritized glory,” Seteth says. 

“Oh, please. I knew those two could handle themselves. We were trying to complete the mission.” 

“I understand the competition between the houses as a matter of honor, but in the future you must-” 

“Seteth,” the Archbishop interrupts as she enters the room. Turns out her seeming to float with that uncomfortable ethereal grace wasn’t a one-off thing. Claude wonders if her feet even touch the ground. Even so, the ease she has is strained. Claude can see that she’s tense, her brow furrowed and jaw clenched just enough for anyone observant in the audience to pick up on. “Do not be so hard on them. It was their first mission.” 

“Archbishop,” Seteth greets. “Forgive me, but you did not hear the report of the situation.” 

“There are more important things to worry about,” Rhea says, folding her hands in front of herself and looking over the students. “They will have a chance to improve their performance in their next mission.” 

“Another already?” Seteth asks. 

“Come on, at least give the kids a chance to settle in,” Jeralt complains. That earns him a steady glare from Rhea. He doesn’t seem to shrink from it, but Claude notices him shift, the confidence of his posture slackening slightly. Is he afraid of her? 

“They will have a chance,” Rhea replies, with the sort of feigned politeness Claude is used to hearing from bureaucrats. “They will have two weeks to prepare while the Knights deal with the bulk of the issue. The students will merely need to go to clean up the stragglers.” 

“Where will we be going, exactly?” Edelgard interjects. 

“My guards have reported that Lord Lonato of Gaspard has raised an army against the church.” 

“What?!” comes Ashe’s shocked voice from within the Blue Lions’ ranks. He covers his mouth quickly, but he doesn’t look embarrassed over his horror. 

Rhea looks at the mob of students and picks Ashe out in the crowd. She motions, prompting him to step forward. He looks fit to pass out. Dedue and Annette each place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Claude’s no softie, but his heart aches for the poor kid. He’s definitely not jealous of Ashe’s position. 

“Uh… Are you certain?” Ashe asks, voice small. “I just don’t think that sounds like something he would do.” 

“I’m inclined to agree,” Dimitri says, looking at his classmates. “We’ve all known Lonato for years. He’s been troubled since Christophe, but…” 

“My guard has already crossed blades with him. He flies his banner against the Church of Seiros,” Rhea replies, folding her arms. Her patience seems to be dangling by a thread. 

“Have your soldiers tried talking with him?” Claude pipes up, rather impulsively. Marianne looks at him like he’s signed his own death warrant. 

“Enemies of the Church cannot be reasoned with,” Rhea replies, tone icy. “If he would raise his sword against the heavens, he is already too far gone. He knew the risk when he took up arms.” 

“A rebellion doesn’t come from nowhere,” Claude says, easily. Hilda places a hand on Claude’s arm at the same time Seteth places one on Rhea’s, as if they’re each trying to stop the argument from across the room. Claude eases off. He can feel everyone staring. Dimitri and Edelgard’s gazes are especially piercing. Ashe looks thankful. 

“In any case,” Rhea says, taking a deep breath as if to calm herself, “his militia forces are no match for the Knights. The rebellion will be calmed quickly. You shall travel and join the Knights in dealing with the aftermath. I have chosen a member of the rear guard to lead you. She will arrive in two weeks to brief you on the situation and guide you. Now go.” 

She performs a sweeping gesture, as if she could blow them all from the room like dust from a page. 

There’s a general discontent, but they all turn to go. Jeralt moves to approach Byleth. 

“Jeralt,” Rhea says. “You stay behind. I have a different mission for you to handle.” 

“I’m not part of the Knights anymore,” Jeralt replies. 

“Would you deny the church’s request?” She asks. 

Jeralt considers for a moment, then sighs. She smiles serenely. 

“Remember,” Jeralt says, voice low, to Claude. “Keep an eye on my kid.” 

“You want to explain what’s going on here?” Claude asks. 

Jeralt claps Claude’s back instead of answering and gently shoves him forward. Then he turns and heads back towards Rhea and Seteth. 

“What foolishness,” Lorenz says, when he is out of earshot of the lions. “It is a noble’s duty to protect the common folk, not to drag them into their squabbles.” 

“We don’t know the full story yet,” Leonie protests. “And you act like he’s just throwing his people at the Knights. Maybe they wanted to help him.” 

“It is extortionist at best,” Lorenz replies. “Whatever the reason, he is putting his people’s bodies before the blade.” 

“Turning against the Church… I can’t understand it,” Marianne says, shaking her head. 

“It’s unthinkable,” Ignatz agrees. 

“You guys are all so sour,” Claude says. “Don’t look so glum. When we get there, I’m sure we’ll sort everything out. I want to see confident faces.” 

“I have no lack of confidence,” Lorenz replies. 

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Claude says, smirking. 

“I don’t understand any of this politics stuff,” Raphael interrupts. “I just know I’ve got to go train. Taking on a real army sounds like a challenge.” 

“Rhea said it was a militia,” Monica says. “And we’ll just be cleaning up the scraps. It’ll probably be boring.” She feigns a yawn. 

“I hope it’s boring,” Hilda says. “I don’t want to have to do any work. You don’t think they’re going to make us rebuild houses, do you?” 

“I think I’d rather do that than fight,” Ignatz says. 

“Hey, Ignatz, we should go practice picking up bricks to train for that,” Raphael says, enthused. 

“H-how would that help?” Ignatz asks. But Raphael is already gripping Ignatz’s wrist and trying to tug him along. He looks back at the group helplessly. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to-” 

“Do some finger exercises while you’re at it,” Claude calls after him, giving a wave as he dooms Ignatz to his fate. 

“I swear I am the only one who grasps the seriousness of the situation,” Lorenz replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Nope. You’re just the only one being fussy about it,” Claude replies. 

“Fussy? I’ll have you know-” 

“Sorry, I’ve got to go work out our strategy now,” Claude says. “But you guys should go train. Run some of the drills teach taught us. ” 

“You’re not going to?” Lorenz asks. 

“I’ll get around to it.” He hops up a set of steps in a quick few bounds and smirks down at a very cranky Lorenz before leaving. 

He can’t exactly blame Jeralt for the house’s performance on that last mission. Jeralt’s used to ordering around practiced soldiers. The Golden Deer, for the most part, aren’t practiced soldiers. As much as Claude wants to trust him to take the helm, he doesn’t think Jeralt _wants_ the helm. And leaving that control in someone else’s hands makes Claude too nervous, especially after the trust was broken. Almost being eaten by a Crawler is a step too far. 

That’s fine. He’s spent a lot of his life studying strategy. He’ll just sneakily steal the command without warning Jeralt. 

He swings by the library to grab a few books on Faerghian battle strategy, architectural development, and a text on the history and geography of the Gaspard region. 

The rest of the afternoon he spends on drawing up graphs of various regions in Gaspard, running imaginary scenarios. Worst case they’ll be greeted by a full standing army, most likely case they’ll face a small force of dedicated stragglers, best case they’ll actually get a chance to talk with the wanted man himself. Claude prepares for it all as best he can. 

The books in his room are already piling up. His desk and bed are covered in them. He’s shifting through trying to find one on Faerghus’ plant life (collecting some plants while they’re in the area might be a wise idea) when he unearths the Almyran history text again. With everything else he’s been reading, he nearly forgot about it. 

He should read it all at once. Stay up all night inhaling every page. Something in him doesn’t want to, though. Not too quickly. Consuming one of the only relics he has of home feels wrong. He needs to savor it. He has all year. 

...Maybe he’ll indulge a little. 

The next part of the story is very long. It details extensively the trials and tribulations of the Almyran king’s efforts to traverse the land. Though far less deadly than before, sparse creatures still roamed, and seemed to make a point of coming upon them. They travelled north first, something they would come to regret. The winters were harsh and unforgiving there. Much of the party was lost and they nearly considered returning home. 

They moved southeast, trying to find respite, but on the horizon were blocked by mountains for many miles. Only a small fraction of the original party was left, lost and struggling, when they were found. Humans, who had been living on the other side of the continent for so long, also believing their side of the world was the only habitable one. 

They shared their amazement with one another. The king told of how the land had begun to change after the falling of a blue star and asked how. The people of Fódlan were excited to introduce them to the source of the land’s health. 

The king was brought from the edges of the mountains to a bustling, massive, concentric city with planning so intricate it almost rivaled the architecture of Almyra. Almost. 

At the center, he was introduced to the small nation’s twin gods. They looked like humans, but with eyes like serpents, with eyes like fire. One a flame of warmth and one of end, of cold and fading embers. They carried themselves with the air of one who knew their power, of ones with the strength of the vast sky. 

Sothis and Thales. 

There’s a name Claude has never heard before. Thales, a second god erased from history. At least, as far as he can tell. He scours the other books in his possession for any mention he might’ve missed, but the name never comes up. 

He stashes the book beneath his bed and locks up his room, then creeps out into the hall. All is dark, the lamps snuffed to discourage students from sneaking out past curfew. He doesn’t care much about that, though. He has to go to the library and find out if this name is mentioned anywhere or it’ll drive him mad all night. 

He makes his way out of his room, carefully picking his route so as to avoid any night guards (or, heavens forbid, Seteth). When he gets there, he's surprised to see the barest hint of light filtering through under the door. Not enough to be notable to anyone not looking, but Claude was always looking. He presses his ear to the door, attempting to hear any sign of life within. None are evident. As much as he'd love to wait a few minutes longer listening, just to be sure, at that point it'd be riskier staying out than going in. So he cracks the door as quietly as possible and slips inside.

Claude tiptoes over to the directory. There’s only two lamps on, on the desks near the middle of the room. Interesting. It gives him enough light to read by. 

It’s strange, though. He’d think if somebody had forgotten to turn any of the lamps out, they’d be near the back or the entrance, not the centre. But a cursory glance around doesn’t reveal anyone, so Claude continues. 

He gets to the index and starts flipping through the pages. What section would it be under? Theology, right? If only this damn thing had an alphabetical key. He’s bemoaning his bad luck when he hears...well...someone moaning, actually, from behind one of the bookcases.

Claude debates what to do for a moment. He could call out, but he doesn’t want to invoke any ire. Especially not so early on in the year. He can’t afford any serious enemies. Had they really not noticed him? Was he stealthier than he thought - in other words, as stealthy as he hoped? No, more likely the lovebirds were just wrapped up in each other. That still left the question of what to do; it wasn’t that he _couldn’t_ leave, but if he let this continue they might come back and interrupt him some other time. That’s a problem. Shame was the only antidote.

Still, subtlety was always the better option when you could take it, in Claude’s opinion. So he coughs into his elbow, then clears his throat. 

There’s momentary silence, then the start of a hushed sentence, but it’s cut off by a girl bursting out from her hiding place and rushing out past Claude. Her clothes are rumpled and askew, but Claude turns his eyes away the second he confirms he’s never seen her before. No need to be rude. Following her is a much more familiar face - Sylvain, also looking rather disheveled. Not nearly to the degree of his partner, though. He offers Claude a sheepish smile and a shrug - _what can ya do_ is written all over his face - and starts towards the door.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he apologises. “She freaked. We didn’t even hear you come in. I’ll leave you to it, though...”

Now, Claude could (and probably should) be polite and allow Sylvain to make his exit. But on the _other_ hand, this is an excellent opportunity to learn more about some things he’s been curious about, not to mention getting an in to the Blue Lions. Byleth could be a good ally, for sure, but they don’t have the same history with the others that Claude has observed. They won’t know everything about the politics of the region that a noble would, either.

So he steps in front of Sylvain, blocking his exit. Sylvain stops rather abruptly, looking down at him with confusion. 

“Hey now,” Claude smiles. “You’re not even gonna let me thank you for earlier?”

Sylvain’s expression is blank for a moment before his eyes light up with recognition. “Oh, yeah! Yeah, I...Uh, don’t worry about that. It was no big deal.”

“Really? Felt like a big deal to me. I would’ve been in big trouble without your help.”

Sylvain seems to sense the underlying motive, because he shifts uncomfortably, though his polite smile doesn’t fall. It’d maybe be convincing, if he wasn’t talking to someone who’d perfected the same act years ago.

“Just doing my job,” he assures. “I’m sure you’d do the same for me. Anyway, I really should be-”

“Sylvain, right?” Claude interrupts. “Hey, I had some questions I wanted to ask you. Would that be alright?”

Sylvain shifts from foot to foot, shoulders tense, though his face betrays none of that anxious energy. “I mean...I gotta get back to bed, y’know? Or, uh, find my date to apologise.”

Interesting how the date was forced into second fiddle, but Claude won’t call it out. “Sure, and I won’t keep you. We can make it a date,” he jokes. “Come on, indulge me. Let’s meet up back here tomorrow night so you can get some rest and apologise to your girlfriend. Sound good?”

“Uh...” Sylvain frowns. 

“Or, if you think not,” Claude continues, idly twirling his braid around his finger, “I guess I could always go ask Dimitri in your place.”

That was a gamble, given Claude knows jack shit about if Sylvain respects Dimitri or not, but it seems to have paid off. Sylvain straightens up, eyes widening. Lucky Claude. Sylvain could’ve easily leveraged his saving Claude’s life against him, but apparently he was either too good a guy, too forgetful, or too worried about his standing with the prince. Claude’s money is actually on fear of retribution from his house leader, though, given the expression on Sylvain’s face. 

“No, it’s alright!” Sylvain assures, making a pacifying motion with his hand. Claude snorts to himself. “Yeah, we can meet up here. I mean, if you’re looking for smarts, you’d do better looking somewhere else, but I’ll do what I can to help if you _really_ want it. Just so you know, though, any of the other people in my house are probably better bets. More clever, like I said. Better read, too. Not to mention all of ‘em are probably less, uh, lackadaisical. Or whatever.”

Claude shakes his head. “I don’t need any of them, Sylvain. They’re not the type of person I’m looking for.”

Sylvain furrows his brow. “What kind of person are you looking for?”

“Someone willing to break some rules for a little adventure,” Claude winks. He pats Sylvain on the shoulder, then steps out of the way. “Goodnight, buddy.”

Though he looks thoroughly confused, Sylvain nods. “Goodnight. See you tomorrow, I...guess.” 

He starts walking out in a daze, though he still slips out quietly with an ease so practiced it looked like second nature. Just judging from this incident, Claude wouldn’t be surprised if he’d learnt how to be so stealthy to avoid girls’ parents - or his own. Or both.

Claude almost feels bad about taking advantage of the situation for his own gain, but if he started feeling bad about that sort of thing, he’d be burdened with too many regrets to bear. He’s on a mission here. He’ll never get to the bottom of anything if he starts getting squeamish about a little light blackmail. (And really, it had been _very_ light. Sylvain should thank him for that, once he gets over it.)

But he shouldn’t spend too long dwelling on it. He still needs to try and find information on Thales before staying in the library becomes risky. He can only hope that Sylvain’s exit was as stealthy as it appeared.

Despite his grandest efforts, his search turns up nothing. Sparse information implies loss over time, but no information implies a deliberate coverup. He’ll have to be careful who he asks about this. Even dear old Tomas might be out of the question. 

Returning to bed empty-handed feels bad, but he doesn’t have much other choice. He starts the cautious walk back to his room. 

Along the way, he hears footsteps. Someone else breaking curfew? He peers around the corner and squints into the dark. He can just barely make out the figure of Edelgard’s grim satellite leaving the residential hall. It’s almost weird to see him alone; he thought Hubert was glued to her side. 

What could he be doing at this hour? He’s not headed to the library, so it’s at least something slightly more nefarious than studying. 

Claude feels his side to check he’s remembered to hide a blade there. He did. He doesn’t think Hubert will pick a fight, but better safe than sorry if he’s going to follow him. 

He creeps across the old stones quietly, catching up so he can watch Hubert’s direction from the doorway. Hubert moves with purpose, like a soldier towards battle. He hasn’t even brought a light with him. 

Claude follows, inching along the wall and stepping lightly. He’s doing his best to move silently, but everything seems to echo off these old stones. 

Hubert is headed towards the main body of the monastery. Going for nightly prayer? Ha, Hubert doesn’t strike him as the religious type. 

He suddenly changes course, heading sidelong towards the training fields. Claude hesitates to follow. That strikes him as something someone suspicious would do. It’s what he would do if he knew he was being followed, in fact. His natural curiosity wins out, though. He follows along, trying to keep a larger distance between them. 

“How long are you planning on stalking me?” Hubert suddenly asks from ahead. He pauses in his stride again, but doesn’t turn his head to look back at Claude. 

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Claude asks, standing from where he’s hidden and stretching. 

“I could say the same to you,” Hubert says, still not turning. He shifts slightly, adjusting his gloves. Claude watches his posture. He holds one hand low, ready. He’s armed with a concealed knife as well, Claude would guess. That’s interesting. 

“What’re you up to?” Claude asks. 

“Taking a walk,” Hubert replies, finally pivoting to give Claude a glare. “Now that I’ve explained, are you quite done following me?” 

“You know, I could use a little fresh air, too,” Claude says. “Why don’t I walk with you?” 

“You think yourself very funny, don’t you?” Hubert asks. 

Claude grins in response. 

Hubert moves to walk past him, back towards the rooms. “Do not make a nuisance of yourself,” he warns, as he passes Claude. “I won’t hesitate to be rid of you.” 

“I’m shaking in my boots,” Claude hums. Better men than Hubert had tried it. He wasn’t as worried as the man clearly hoped. “You know, I think it’s probably frowned upon to threaten your classmates.” 

Hubert is less than amused. “Watch yourself, Claude. If you spend too much time watching others, you’ll miss the knife at your back.” He heads back inside, leaving Claude to mull those words over in the cold moonlight. 

A sharp shiver of paranoia travels up his spine. Was that just another threat from a man trying too hard, or did he know something? 

Probably the former. But Claude doesn’t like the small chance of the latter. He returns to his room and double-checks the few traps he’s laid. 

When he goes to bed with his knife stashed under his pillow, he can almost revel in how nostalgic it feels. 

The night is sleepless, but he rises feeling at least slightly better. People have always tried to stop him. It doesn’t matter if there’s trouble. He’ll work it out. 

Claude heads to class. The students settle in their places and prepare, but Jeralt never shows. 

“The Archbishop’s mission for him must’ve been more urgent than we thought,” Ignatz says, frowning. 

“So we’re just supposed to make do without a professor until he gets back? That doesn’t seem fair,” Leonie complains. “The other houses get to keep their professors.” 

“I’m going to go back to bed,” Hilda yawns, stretching her arms over her head. “Ugh, but then I’ll have to carry these books back. Monica, can you do it for me?” 

“No way,” Monica laughs. “Ask Mari.” 

“Who, me?” Marianne asks. “I could try…” 

“No, no, I’ll do it,” Hilda sighs. 

“Come on you guys,” Claude says. “Surely we can learn without any hand-holding. We’re a mostly clever bunch.” He casts a side glance at Raphael. “Mostly.” Raphael doesn’t notice. 

“What do you propose we do, then?” Lorenz inquires. 

“Let’s head outside and run formations,” Claude says. “Like a mock battle. It’s a good way to prepare.” He stands up and everyone stares. So he motions with his arm. “Come on, troops, what’d I say? Time to rally. We’re not learning anything just sitting around here.” He leads the class out. 

“Warm up while I go grab something.” 

“You’re not just dodging training again, are you?” Lorenz asks. 

“Of course not,” he says, feigning offense. “Stay right there.” 

A quick trip to his room later and he comes back with a tightly wrapped package. He’s glad to find his classmates are actually still at the practice field setting up. 

“Alright,” Claude calls, walking to the middle of the field. All the eyes on him are uncomfortable. But they’re all listening. It’s almost thrilling. “Let’s divide our forces evenly so you all get a good shot at winning. I want you three on that side, and you two move over there- Marianne, you can get in, too.” 

“Uhm… I don’t want to get in anyone’s way,” she says. “And there’s no such thing as blunt practice magic, so…” 

Claude looks her over for a moment. She honestly looks sturdier than her posture would indicate. Her arms are long. She could have a killer reach if she trained at it. So he says, 

“Pick up a lance.” 

“Huh?” 

“You like sticking close to Hilda and Monica, right? They both favor closer range. If you train in the lance, you can keep up with them while staying a little further back.” 

“I don’t think I’ll do very well…,” Marianne protests. 

“Can’t know until you try. Come on, don’t be a scaredy cat,” he teases. “We can work this out.” 

“Um… Alright.” She picks up one of the practice lances and falls into formation, holding it awkwardly. 

Claude walks up and down between the two little armies he’s formed to look them over, adjusting the positions of a few students and giving advice as he goes. Then he gets back to the center and begins, 

“Our mission is going to be in Gaspard. If we’re lucky, we don’t have to fight anyone. But the battlefield is unpredictable.” He sets his bound package down. “We gotta be ready for the worst. This time of year, Gaspard is prone to dense fog. So you need to practice fighting with limited visibility.” 

He pulls some flint from his pocket. 

“Riegan, what are you doing-” Lorenz begins to ask.

“Good luck!” Claude says, as he sparks the stones and sets fire to the little package, which immediately explodes into a burst of smoke that fills the practice field. “Oh, that’s more effective than I thought,” he coughs, backing up. “Go on, get started.” 

Raphael bellows a warcry, which is exactly what Claude expected to happen, and dashes forward to clash with his classmates. 

It’s a little difficult to keep track of what’s happening when it’s this filled with smoke. Claude dodges and weaves among the chaos to keep an eye on it all. Lots of stumbling, lots of missed swings. Yep, they’re going to need a lot more practice. Lucky thing they’ve got Claude with them. 

The people “fall” left and right, faking their untimely demises with more melodrama than Claude would apply. 

“Hilda, why are you just hanging back?” Claude asks. 

“You’re not training either,” she complains. 

“Sure I am. I’m practicing being a strategist. Now get moving.”  
“You have no work ethic,” Hilda sighs, not finding the irony there, and getting to work. She doesn’t put her back into it. 

When the smoke finally starts to clear, the last two students left standing are Lorenz and Leonie, breathing heavily. 

“Great job, everyone,” Claude says. “I’m going to need to pick out more herbs before we can try that again, but it gave me some very valuable insights. I’ve got some more training to prescribe.” 

He lines his fellows up so he can give them their orders. 

“Raphael, you and Monica need to train together. Ignatz, I think you should go ask Ashe to train with you. He’s from Gaspard, so he’ll have some advice on short shots.” 

“You think you can handle my muscles?” Raphael asks Monica. 

“Oh, I’ll crush you,” she replies, delighted. 

“I’ll do my best,” Ignatz says, nodding. 

“Marianne, you should go work on riding. Hilda… You go with her,” Claude says. 

“Okay,” Marianne says, with the faintest smile on her face. 

They all head out, which leaves, 

“Leonie, Gloucester… I think you two should train with each other.” 

“What?” Leonie asks. 

Claude sits on the edge of a low stone wall, observing their training. He flips his pen between his fingers as he thinks. These two have really different fighting styles. Maybe it’s a little cruel to make them work together when they clash so often, but it’s probably good for them. Good for Lorenz, at least. Also a great way to analyze the variety of styles they might end up up against on the field. 

Leonie is solid all around, but her form is sloppy. She drives forward with a strong arm, with confidence, but she also leaves herself open too often. Claude can pinpoint a dozen windows where he would’ve struck. 

She’s saved by Lorenz being just as brazen. He’s underestimating her. When she lands a hit, he looks surprised. But he doesn’t put the same force into striking back; Claude knows that it’s because she’s a commoner. He’s hesitant to harm her. 

Leonie isn’t hesitant to harm him. 

When their lances lock together and she can’t break his hold, she shifts her grip to brace the lance with one hand. 

And then punches him. 

Lorenz yelps. 

“Hold!” He says, dropping his lance so he can raise a hand to his nose. He touches it lightly, then brings it away, relieved to find no blood. “What do you think you’re doing? That is a most dishonorable move.” 

“Who cares about if it’s honorable?” Leonie asks. “I was trying to win.” 

“I know you are a commoner, but you must still practice decency.” 

“Excuse me?” Leonie asks. “What does being a commoner have to do with anything? And that decency nonsense. You have to be willing to do anything on the battlefield.” 

“She’s right,” Claude cuts in from where he sits. “In the heat of battle, being noble’s not going to help you. It’ll probably just get you lanced.” 

“I know very well how to battle, Riegan,” Lorenz replies, turning his nose up at him. “I’ve been settling territorial disputes in Gloucester since before I went to the Royal Academy of Sorcery.” 

That’s right, Claude remembers reading about the frequency of child soldiers in Fódlan. Something about children in Faerghus being taught to hold a sword before learning to read, and the Alliance not being much better. Pretty barbaric for a nation that tries to act like Almyra is so terribly violent. 

“Well, I’ve been fighting my whole life, too,” Leonie replies, brow furrowed. 

“Hardly on the same scale,” Lorenz replies. “And only because noble delinquency resulted in your home being unprotected. You shouldn’t have had to fight in the first place. House Riegan abandoned you,” Lorenz says, giving Claude a glare as he says it. 

“Hey now, that’s not my fault,” Claude says, putting his hands up. 

“Your outlook is twisted,” Leonie replies. “Everyone should be responsible for protecting the people they care about. That’s why I’m here. And we _like_ not being controlled by snooty nobles.”

“Snooty?” Lorenz replies, frowning, less offended and more genuinely surprised. “We are not snooty. It is simply our duty to defend the common people.” 

“You can just admit it if you’re mad she won,” Claude teases. 

“Do you intend to train at all, or do you plan on sitting there all day being a pest?” Lorenz asks, instead of dignifying that with a response. 

“Oh boy,” Claude sighs. 

“Do not sound so dismissive. You’ve been observing us working while you waste time,” he says. “If this is indicative of how you intend to lead, you may as well step down now.” 

Leonie rolls her eyes. “I’m going to go join Monica and Raphael. They’re less annoying,” she tells Lorenz, turning to go, balancing her lance on her shoulder. 

“Leonie, wait,” Lorenz tries, but she is steadfast. She’s given up. 

“You don’t have to be so combative,” Claude says. 

“I do. Nothing I have seen of you so far suggests the diligence necessary to lead,” Lorenz says. He raises his lance. “I challenge you.” 

“So dramatic. I guess I don’t have a choice, huh?” Claude sighs. “I’m a ranged fighter. Don’t you think I’ll be at a disadvantage?” 

“A good leader should be multi-talented,” Lorenz replies. 

“At least level the field with me. Let’s both use swords,” Claude says, hopping off his perch to go to the weapons rack. He picks up two practice swords and tosses one Lorenz’s way. 

Lorenz catches it with surprising ease, weighing it in his hand. Claude knows already Lorenz vastly prefers the lance. The distance it allows is more comfortable for him. Lorenz isn’t fearful, but he plays an interesting mix of overconfident and cautious. He’s certain he’ll accidentally apply that logic here. He can see it in the way Lorenz holds the sword just a little too far back. 

Claude stands back, getting into position. He hasn’t practiced this land’s swordplay yet. Hopefully the Almyran style won’t give it away. Lorenz squares up as well. 

Claude swings, ready to set the pace of the fight. Lorenz takes a step back, blocking. He keeps backing up, as Claude expected, trying to build distance. 

So Claude pursues. Lorenz has long arms. He can’t get all the force he needs behind him if Claude keeps it tight. 

He strikes again, and Lorenz parries, narrowly. He pushes Claude back and isn’t as strong as Claude was worried he’d be. The Gloucester crest wasn’t built for strength like some of the others, he supposes. Lorenz takes his own swing and Claude ducks it. 

He wants to end this quick. Maybe just to prove he can. He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone, but sometimes a fella just gets that urge. 

He hops back to fake another opening for a swing and Lorenz falls for it like the sucker he is. Claude dodges and grabs Lorenz’s arm, tugging him into the follow-through so that Lorenz falls forward and lands flat on his stomach with a pained grunt. 

“Such a dirty fighter,” Lorenz complains as he sits up, dusting himself off. 

“I wouldn’t call it dirty. Just smart.” 

“I wonder where one learns tricks like that. Certainly not in a noble home,” Lorenz huffs. 

“I think I’m getting deja vu,” Claude teases. 

Lorenz pushes back to his feet and tries to strike again. Claude’s got his rhythm down now, though. He dances back, twirling his sword. It’s been a while since he used one. Nader wasn’t a fan of the danger and neither was he. But in a spar, it does feel kind of good. 

“Get back here,” Lorenz complains, going in for another slash. Claude dodges to the side and steps forward, catching Lorenz’s sword arm between his own arm and body. He uses his leg to kick out one of Lorenz’s and sends him toppling to the ground again, backwards this time. Lorenz yelps and drops his sword on the way down. 

Claude places the point of the practice sword under Lorenz’s chin. 

“I think that’s my win, Gloucester.” 

Lorenz flushes in fury, pushing the sword aside and sitting up. 

“You completely lack a noble disposition.” 

“Maybe you can tutor me. Please instruct me in the art of snobbery, professor.” 

“You-” Lorenz rises to his feet, grabbing his practice sword again as he does. “You can continue joking all you like. Jokes will not fix anything. Do you know anything about the responsibility you bear?” He’s getting more genuinely heated than Claude’s seen before. “You’re far too carefree, treating all of this like a game. I don’t know where you came from, or what your intentions are, but if this is your attitude, it would’ve been better for you to never come at all.” He turns on his heel and flees before Claude can reply. 

Claude frowns after him. This guy. “He can’t be reasoned with,” Claude murmurs, trying to convince himself more than anything. He grips the hilt of the sword. Is he biting off more than he can chew? The wellbeing of a lot of people rides on this. ...But that’s why he’s here, in the end. To make things better. His ambitions are too important to be thrown off by a snob like Lorenz. The Leicester Alliance is stuck in its ways. The only way to make it grow is with someone new. It has to be him. 

“Whoa! Hey. Are you alright?” Comes Cyril’s voice, a little distant. Claude drops his sword back into the weapons rack swiftly so he can get involved. Sometimes a man just has to be nosy. 

“I am fine,” Lysithea’s voice replies, as Claude peeks up over a ledge. 

A woman Claude hasn’t seen before is leaning over to help Lysithea up. Her expression seems put out, but Claude can catch a glint of concern in her eyes. He notices a tabbed leather glove on her hand and instantly has a good guess at who this is. 

“Steady now,” she says, and Lysithea rises, seeming off balance. 

“Did you trip?” Cyril asks. 

“No,” Lysithea replies, shaking her head swiftly, and then wobbling a little from that. 

“Should we take her to the infirmary, Miss Shamir?” Cyril asks. Bingo. 

“No,” Lysithea repeats, brushing down her skirt. “I’m fine.” 

“She probably just trained too hard,” Claude agrees, entering scene. Cyril and Lysithea seem surprised, but Shamir doesn’t. She probably knew he’d arrived. It’s that archer awareness. 

“You,” Shamir greets. “You’re the one who set off that smoke bomb in the field earlier.” 

Oops. “I promise there were very important strategic reasons for that,” Claude replies, smiling. 

“You did what?” Cyril asks. “I hope you didn’t make a mess...” 

“Of course not. I clean up after myself,” he says, shaking his head. Shamir doesn’t seem to appreciate the assurance. She’s fixing him with a very flat gaze. “...Should I expect a visit from mister grouchy?” 

“Who, Seteth? No, I’m not talking to him,” Shamir replies, crossing her arms. “I honestly thought it was pretty clever. Just try taking it outside the monastery next time.” 

“Can you let go of me?” Lysithea asks, stepping out from Shamir’s grip. “I’m fine.” 

“You fell,” Shamir reminds. 

“Don’t you guys worry. I’ll babysit her for you,” Claude teases, reaching up to ruffle Lysithea’s hair. 

“Babysit? Do not treat me like a child,” Lysithea says, stamping her foot, a bit like a child. 

Cyril looks like a mouse waiting for a chance to run. It’s clear as day he hates his proximity to this conversation. 

“I’m gonna go practice my archery,” he says. 

“Hey, you should go out to the shooting range and practice with Ignatz and Ashe,” Claude suggest. Cyril looks at Claude like he’s spilled his marbles all over the floor. 

“Uh. They’re actual students. I dunno if that’s allowed,” Cyril says. 

“Is there a formal rule against it?” Claude asks, looking to Lysithea and Shamir for guidance. Is there even a formal rulebook or it just a loose collection of no-nos you’re supposed to learn by getting yelled at? He should check the library tonight, just in case there’s a rule against smoke bombs. 

“I don’t care,” Shamir replies. 

“No,” Lysithea answers, at the same time. 

“It’ll be good for you,” Shamir continues to Cyril. “Hop to it.” 

He nods his agreement and heads out, shouldering his small bow. 

“So you’re teaching him archery?” Claude asks. 

“I’m the archery instructor. Kind of my job,” Shamir replies, hand on her hip. 

“I have heard of you,” Lysithea says. “The greatest spy in the Knights, are you not?” 

“Maybe,” Shamir replies. She seems ambivalent about the praise. Take or leave it. It’s an interesting perspective to see in play. Maybe that’s what someone who’s really confident looks like. 

“Claude. You should train with her,” Lysithea says. 

“Huh?” He asks. “I don’t know, she looks a little too harsh for my liking,” he jokes, rubbing his neck. Lucky for him, Shamir’s disapassion extends to that insult. She doesn’t seem to mind it. 

“The Archbishop chose her herself,” Lysithea says, the deeper meaning not lost on Claude. “Her lessons would be invaluable.” 

“If you’re an archery student, I’m going to be teaching you,” Shamir cuts in. “I try to take my job seriously, so I won’t be letting you slack off. I’ve been out on a mission, but my classes start tomorrow afternoon. One on one. I’m sure Seteth will get you your time slot.” 

“Insistent,” Claude says, approving. “I’ll be ready, then. Have my bow shined and everything.” 

Shamir doesn’t reply, and just regards the two of them for a second. 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” she asks Lysithea. 

“Certain,” Lysithea agrees. 

“Good. I’m not getting in trouble because you’re stubborn,” she says, turning around to go. 

Lysithea swats Claude’s arm. “Do not taunt me. Especially not in front of other people.” 

“I couldn’t help it. You’re just so funny when you throw a fit,” Claude teases. “Why’d you fall?” he asks, before she can complain. 

“I became lightheaded. It happens sometimes,” Lysithea says, starting to lead him away. He can guess at her trajectory. Somewhere remote. Maybe they’ve both got information to share. 

“Do you need to go talk with Hanneman?” he asks. “I can give you a piggyback ride.”

“You are terribly childish,” she protests, raising her chin slightly and trying to look far too dignified for a piggyback ride. It doesn’t work, but Claude lets her dream for now. 

She stops in a remote corner of the monastery, wedged between a wall and a series of bushes, peering around to ensure no one is passing. 

“We needed to talk about what we’ve found so far,” she says. 

“And what’ve you found?” 

“...Not much,” Lysithea admits, near pouting. “It doesn’t seem like most of the Black Eagles are particularly religious, which makes finding information on the Western Church difficult.” 

“Have you managed to talk to anyone about Hrym?” Claude asks. 

Lysithea nods. “A little. There’s a swords instructor here named Jeritza. He was appointed the new head of House Hrym before being recommended to teach here. Recommended by Edelgard’s uncle.” 

“Now that’s interesting,” Claude says. “Do you think the dastardly emperor is involved?” 

“I don’t believe so,” Lysithea says, shaking her head. “His power was destabilized right around the time this was ongoing. I don’t think he would’ve had the sort of reach to be involved in it.” 

“How about Jeritza? You think the swordmaster is involved?” He asks. 

“Hard to know. He could be an unwitting pawn, or involved only tangentially through circumstance… I’m going to try to train under him to find out,” she says. 

“You think you’re up to that?” Claude asks, brows raised. 

“I’ve never let my body stop me before,” she says. “I won’t now, either.” 

“Now that’s the kind of thing I like to hear,” Claude laughs. 

“What have you found?” Lysithea asks. 

“Well, I’ve got a really interesting one,” Claude says. “Have you heard the name Thales?” 

“...No,” Lysithea says, after a moment of consideration, as if she were mentally cracking open some historical lexicon in her head and rifling through. He knows the feeling. 

“I have this Almyran history text my mother gave me that recounts the creation of Fódlan. Apparently when the Almyran king arrived, he was greeted by another god alongside Sothis. Thales.” 

“What?” Lysithea asks, eyes blown wider than they usually are, which is already quite wide. “There is no way something like that would be lost.” 

“Unless it was hidden,” Claude agrees. “Which makes me think-” 

There comes a rustle from the bush. Claude and Lysithea both freeze and look towards it. Lysithea shrinks away. 

“What is that?” she whispers. She’s grown pale in the way that indicates she probably thinks it’s some creepy crawly or some monster come to bite her head off. 

“It’s probably just one of the cats,” Claude says. He’s seen a lot of them wandering around. He kneels down. “Come on, kitty kitty,” he coos. 

…

Byleth rises from the bush. 

Well, rises is a kind word. 

They leap out of the bush and start shaking themself off, clearly trying to swat away some bug, much to Claude and Lysithea’s horror. Claude chokes his panicked sound down into a little cough, while Lysithea reels back and covers her mouth to contain a yelp. 

Byleth takes another moment to 'collect' themself before looking at the duo, eyes enormous, twigs and leaves all stuck in their hair and hanging off their clothes. 

“Sorry,” they say. 

“Heh,” Claude says. “Haha!” It’s just too ridiculous, he can’t help but laugh. It helps calm his shaky nerves, at least slightly. In a second he’s going to have to deal with the devastating fallout of Byleth overhearing their scheming, but for the moment he can wipe a watery eye and laugh out, “What were you doin’ in there, buddy?” 

“What _were_ you doing in there?” Lysithea demands, much more incensed, face flushing bright red. 

Byleth furrows their brow. They start to sign something, then realise it’d be fruitless, and bow their head instead. They clasp their hands together, eyes closed as though they’re praying.

“This is no time for that sort of game,” Lysithea scolds. Claude thinks he gets it, though.

“Rhea?” he guesses, raising an eyebrow.

Byleth’s head immediately pops back up and they nod vigorously. They don’t even seem pleased at Claude understanding them. Instead, their expression (muted as it is) is one of worry. Claude thinks they look rather put out.

“Is she trying to rope you into praying with her?”

Byleth considers that. Then they shrug.

“You don’t know what she wanted?” Lysithea asks. Her annoyance has been set aside for the moment and replaced with hungry curiosity.

Byleth nods again, just as energetic. “She’s weird,” they inform Claude and Lysithea, with a great amount of emphasis. Though Claude isn’t sure if he just thinks that because they aren’t one for talking. It’s a good way to add some oomph to statements, Claude thinks - if he hadn’t already established himself as a chatterbox, he might’ve picked up the habit.

“And you came out because...” Claude prompts. He’s not stupid enough to reveal anything in the question, just in case Byleth didn’t hear much at all.

Byleth considers that. They cock their head, staring into space. It looks to Claude like they’re listening to something only they can hear, like a melody, or, judging from their slight frown and intense focus, some sort of class lecture. Finally, they say, “Sothis.”

Lysithea’s frown is so intense that Claude is sure not even his pointed teasing has frustrated her as much as Byleth’s style of communication has. “What about her?”

Byleth almost pouts at the continued questioning. He gets the impression they wish Lysithea and Claude would just understand them without them needing to say anything. They tilt their head again. 

“I’ve heard that before,” they answer after a long pause. It’s supremely unhelpful. Lysithea lets out a frustrated little breath. “I want to help,” Byleth clarifies, seeming to sense her irritation mounting once more. Then they close their mouth and grind their teeth together so hard Claude can see them working their jaw. Maybe ‘not one for talking’ had been underestimating it.

He gets the sense something else is going on here - especially if Rhea herself is seeking Byleth out. But accusations never won anybody any friends. 

“Do you know anything about the Church?” Claude asks. Byleth shakes their head, at least seeming confident on that front. “That makes sense. Your dad doesn’t seem to like the church very much.” 

They work their fingers together and frown like they’re trying to solve a tricky puzzle. It takes them another moment to come to, “He never told me about it.” They look around, as if this hidden corner gives them a great view of the monastery. “It’s… weird.” 

“We can agree on that,” Claude says, resting a hand on his hip. 

“I don’t like it,” they say, expression finally dropping back to neutral. At least, Claude thinks so. It’s a little hard to tell, which Claude hates, but he’s surviving. “My dad told me not to trust her.” 

“So she is up to something,” Lysithea says, enthused by the vindication until the realization of what that means settles on her shoulders and the sour look returns to her face. 

“You look like a kid who’s lost her candy,” Claude teases. “Come on, perk up. It means we’re on the right track.” 

Byleth just looks lost. 

“Right, gotta keep on topic,” Claude agrees. “Did your dad explain why?” Byleth shakes their head. “Don’t know why I thought he would’ve,” Claude sighs. Jeralt’s almost cagier than he is. Maybe for good reason. People don’t hold secrets that close unless they feel the stakes are high. 

“Well, we think the church is up to something awful with crests. I’m pretty interested in cracking the whole thing wide open.” He’ll keep the ‘why’ of that close to his chest. Byleth nods. 

“Good luck,” they say, very seriously. Claude can almost catch an attempt at a sneaky edge, though. Do they think they’re worming out of this? They wince before they’re even caught out, like their own conscience is getting at them for it. 

“Didn’t you say you wanted to help?” Claude teases. 

Byleth frowns. 

“It’s got to be a lot more fun than hiding in bushes, right?” He asks. 

Byleth shakes their head. 

Lysithea scoffs. 

“Yeah it is,” Claude dismisses. “You know, since Rhea is already interested in you, you could probably even try to learn directly from the source.” 

Byleth’s frown deepens. 

“Don’t look so sad. It’s for a good cause. You like helping poor sweet little girls, don’t you?” Claude asks, putting his hands on Lysithea’s shoulders and giving Byleth puppy-dog eyes. 

“Hey!” Lysithea snaps, swatting at him again. 

Byleth sighs. Then they nod, reluctantly. 

“Ridiculous,” Lysithea complains, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Both of you.” 

“Excellent. Ha, I hope your old man won’t be mad at me for roping you into this… Guess it doesn’t hurt if he never finds out,” Claude jokes. “Welcome to the team.” He offers his hand. 

Byleth takes it for as brief a time as they can manage. 

“Now… how about you go find out what Rhea wanted you for?” 

Writing lesson plans is trickier than he thought. Claude discovers this fact when he spends the rest of the afternoon trying to prepare for Jeralt’s inevitable continued absence. He can rush everyone out into the field every now and again, but there are some important things that have to start with theory before practice. 

He gets so wrapped up in it that he almost forgets about his date. He gathers up some books he’s finished with so he can return them while he’s there and starts making his way to the library, quietly. He’s only made the midnight walk once before, but he feels like he knows the route like the back of his hand already. Hey, maybe he should practice walking the monastery blindfolded during the day. Never know when that’ll come in handy. 

Claude enters the library, cautious and quiet, and immediately spots Sylvain sitting at one of the middle tables, reading by lamplight. That’s good news. Claude was almost worried he’d have reweighed his options and decided to ditch. 

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” Claude greets. 

“Oh, hey,” Sylvain says, looking up in surprise before melting back into his usual smirk. “You’re late to our meeting,” he chastises, rising to meet Claude. Claude heads over, quickly pressing a few books back into their places along the way. 

“I just didn’t take you for the punctual type,” Claude lies. “You look like the sort of guy to be fashionably late.” 

Sylvain closes the book in his hand, giving Claude a chance to glance at the title. _Loog and the Maiden of Wind._ He hasn’t read that one through, but he picked it up for a quick look the other day. Maybe he’ll nab it for himself later. 

“I always try to be on time for my dates,” Sylvain winks.  
“What a gentleman,” Claude jokes back. 

“Always. So, uh… What was it you wanted to talk about?” Sylvain asks. “I don’t know if I’ll be particularly helpful.” 

“Sure you will,” he says. “You’re the heir of Gautier, aren’t you?” There’s this flicker in Sylvain’s eyes that’s hard to place. A look like Claude’s just put a knife to his throat by mentioning that. 

“I guess so,” Sylvain says, smiling easily. “Not a very good one, though. I’m all play.” 

“Everyone knows Gautier has their finger on the pulse of Faerghus. There’s no way you’re not well-informed. All that military might probably comes with a lot of intel.” All that military might also means Claude feels the need to walk delicately around Sylvain, actually. Given their history with Sreng, it’s fully possible little sir Gautier won’t be too fond of outsiders. 

“You’ve got me all wrong,” Sylvain laughs, putting both his hands up, like he’s physically trying to get Claude to slow down. 

“You at least seem close with the other people in your house,” Claude concedes. 

“Well… Yeah. We’ve all been friends for years.” 

“All of you?” Claude asks. 

“Yeah. I’ve known Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid since we were babies,” he says. “And the others kinda filtered in over time, but we’ve all been together since I was… fifteen?” He scrunches his face like counting back the years is hard. He’s so used to it that tracing an origin is difficult. These people are so much a part of him that remembering a time before is hard. Claude can’t help but be a little jealous. 

“That means you must be pretty familiar with Lonato, right?” Claude asks. He starts poking through the shelves again as he talks. If there _is_ a school rule book it should be around… ah, there it is. 

“Lord Lonato?” Sylvain asks. He frowns, just slightly, clearly troubled. “Yeah. I mean, he was close with King Lambert, so he came around the capital a lot.” 

“That means you probably have a pretty good idea of why he’s doing this whole rebellion thing,” Claude speculates. 

“Well…” Sylvain rubs his neck, a motion Claude’s observed a lot. A self-soothing habit. He wonders if Sylvain himself notices how often he does it. “Ashe is technically Lonato’s adopted son. His oldest son was named Christophe. He was a lot older than the rest of us, so I only met him a couple of times, but… After what happened in Duscur, the Church executed him.” 

“What’d he do?” Claude asks, shifting his focus now. He starts looking for books on Duscur. If he’s figured out Tomas’ organizational system, then they should be located- he spots one named _The Tragedy of Duscur_ and thinks he’s found his mark. 

“The official story goes that he and some other nobles armed the insurgents in Duscur and emboldened them to carry out the assassination. Christophe was implicated in some documents afterwards and, well…” 

Claude grimaces as he delicately takes the book from the shelf, starting to thumb through. He glances back up at Sylvain, who’s wearing a look on his face like he’s trying to work Claude out. A spike of anxiety hits Claude. Is the Tragedy common knowledge? Was picking up a book on it too suspicious? Sylvain doesn’t say anything, though. 

“Sounds like Lonato has plenty of reason to be mad, then,” Claude says. “...You called it the official story,” Claude says. “Do you have another interpretation of events?” 

“Me? Uh. I already told you, I’m not really good at all the politics stuff,” Sylvain says. “I try not to think about it.” 

“This is kind of a big thing to not think about,” Claude says, skimming another page. 

Sylvain frowns, then looks around, before a sort of ‘ah, fuck it’ expression briefly flickers across his face. Whatever risk he thinks there is in talking about this, he seems to have accepted it. 

“I don’t think the people of Duscur did it,” Sylvain says. From what Claude was gathering from this book, that’s a relieving surprise. “...Dimitri and Dedue were both there, and they _know_ the people of Duscur didn’t do it.” 

“You think there was a coverup?” Claude asks. The rabbit hole here is so deep it’s dizzying. Claude almost feels vertigo looking down at all the information left to be unravelled. 

“Duscur and Faerghus have been friendly for, hell, forever. Duscur hasn’t even seen a mass scale battle in like a century or more. They don’t have a standing army. There’s no way insurgents would’ve been able to take on the king’s whole envoy, not to mention the king himself. When I was a kid, I once saw King Lambert crack this wagon in half while laughing- he slapped the side of it and it just kind of-” He takes a breath and tries to calm down, as if he could recollect his cool, calm, and disaffected facade after all of that. He gives Claude this very vacant look, like he’s thoughtless and definitely not opinionated at all. “But people are gonna believe what they’re gonna believe.” 

“Let me guess… Duscur doesn’t have any political sway, so they’re an easy scapegoat,” Claude says. 

“Yep,” Sylvain agrees. “King Rufus ceded all of what used to be Duscur land to Viscount Kleiman. Dimitri’s been trying to get him to rescind that, but… no luck.” He shrugs. “And since everyone’s decided to blame all of Duscur, the people are left to deal with the backlash… Dedue gets a lot of it even though he saved his Highness’ life.” 

“Isn’t that the way it always works out?” Claude asks, shaking his head. People refuse to understand other people, refuse to look past their biases and break out. Sylvain nods, shifting, uncomfortable. “...Was the Western Church responsible for investigating poor Christophe?” Claude wonders. 

“Huh?” He asks. “Not as far as I know. I’m pretty sure it was the Central Church. Usually it would be House Charon, but… The heir of the house was also implicated in the plot right before she went missing,” Sylvain says, with a little grimace, like talking out how convoluted this all is is a little too much for him. “Man, this conversation’s getting way too heavy,” he says.

“Don’t worry. I can tell when a man’s had enough,” Claude jokes. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t know more about the tragedy,” Sylvain says. Has he been waiting to spring that trap all this time? 

“I lived in a remote little village in the Alliance,” Claude replies, simply. 

“Still, I thought the news reached pretty much everywhere. It was big. Obviously.” 

_“Really_ remote,” Claude emphasizes, shrugging, as if to say ‘nothing you can do about it.' Sometimes a simple excuse is the best you can do. Sylvain doesn’t look fully convinced and Claude doesn’t blame him. He’s keener than he looks. Those empty eyes really are almost convincing.

“Come on, you just spent forever grilling me. Can’t I get a little something in return?” Sylvain asks, the floating flirty edge arguably intentional. 

“Sorry, buddy. That’s not how blackmail works,” Claude laughs. “You’ll have to catch me red-handed up to no good if you want a turn. But I will tell you this… Tell Dimitri to prepare to get Ashe to the front. My team will carry you up there. If we do run into Lonato, I want to give him a shot to talk it out.” 

“His Highness has never strategized a day in his life,” Sylvain laughs. “But I’ll see what I can do. It’d be nice if things could end without bloodshed once in a while.” His lazy smirk belies confidence in that possibility. What a pessimist. “If anyone can do it, it’s probably Ashe.” 

“That so?” Claude asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not so sure. He looked a little unsteady on his feet to me. Delicate, you know?”

Sylvain’s smile widens just a little. There’s a spark of something in his expression, an _I know something you don’t_ , but it’s not near enough for Claude to press him on it. He knows he’s paranoid, and besides that, Sylvain’s a better liar than he looks. Any interrogations would probably only lead to frustration. “You’d be surprised. He’s just about as good a shot as anyone here but Shamir. And I bet he’s twice as handy as you with a knife.” He slips _Loog_ back onto the shelves as he talks, not bothering to push it in all the way.

Claude whistles. “You’re talking him up a lot. Maybe we should just leave this mission to the Lions and forget all about teamwork.”

“With any luck, that sort of strategy would actually work,” Sylvain replies. He knocks thrice on a nearby bookcase. After a moment of thought, he turns over his left shoulder and spits three times as well.

“Gross,” Claude comments, smile falling so he can look appropriately disgusted.

“It’s a Faerghus thing,” Sylvain excuses, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”

“You should clean up that mess you made,” Claude suggests. “If we’re going to be doing this regularly, I need you on the ball. That means no leaving behind evidence - bodily fluids or otherwise.” He raises his eyebrows to indicate that spit is not the only thing he expects Sylvain to be careful about leaving traces of.

Sylvain waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Wait, you want to make this a regular thing?”

“Sure. Why not? You’re a strapping young lad, and smarter than you look to boot.”

“Come on. I can’t have _that_ much that you don’t already know.”

“Maybe not,” Claude lies, running a hand through his hair. “But your perspective is fascinating. Can’t blame me for being curious, can you?”

Sylvain looks thoroughly put out - almost pouty - but nods. “So are we gonna do this every night?”

“Nah. I know you’re a busy guy.” Claude looks Sylvain up and down. “I’m sure you had to disappoint some lucky lady to come see me, didn’t you?”

Sylvain’s smirk turns downright salacious as he replies, “Come on now, Claude. You’re special, but not so special I can give up my hobbies.”

“Hah. Well, in that case, maybe we _can_ do this every night,” Claude winks. “But be careful. I can be a pretty demanding partner.”

Sylvain shakes his head, folding his arms. “Yeah, I can tell. Still, I doubt I’ll have news for you every night, so...how about instead you, y’know. Slip me a note during the day if you ever need me for something? That’ll help me make plans properly.”

“Ooh, scandalous. Sure. It’s a good idea. Just be sure to get rid of the notes properly.”

“Yeah, yeah. Trust me, if there’s anyone who knows how to keep a secret rendezvous secret, it’s me,” he jokes, starting to head to the exit while still facing Claude. “You got anything else you wanna ask me, or are we done?”

“We’re done,” Claude assures, waving his hand at Sylvain as if to shoo him. “You can head on back to your girl...or your bed.”

Claude watches him go, enjoying the little snort of a laugh that Sylvain lets slip. It sounds more genuine than a lot of his more practiced motions. Something about it was soothing - knowing that not everything Sylvain was projecting was a front helped Claude feel more at ease about him. So long as he can see through his unlikely project partner, things will be fine. And he’s fairly sure he’s got the man mostly figured out at this point. He had too many tells, too many little habits that gave away what he was really thinking and doing...

As Claude thinks it, he makes his way towards where Sylvain was standing. He’d like to pick up that folk tale as a little bedtime reading - he’s sure it’s mostly a Faerghus thing, but it might help him get in the good graces of someone down the line. You never knew. 

It’s only as he’s standing where Sylvain was that he realises.

The bastard hadn’t spat at all. He’d just put on a good show of it.

Claude scoffs to himself, shaking his head. Well, well. Maybe there was more to be impressed with about Sylvain than Claude had given him credit for. That was good news for the secrecy of his little project...or the worst news possible.

Only time would tell. He couldn’t back out now. He’s in too deep.

He plucks the book from the shelf, askew from where Sylvain had put it back in haphazardly, and cracks it open. 

Finishing the work for tomorrow’s class means he ends up staying up later than he would like. Well, he likes staying up late, but his schedule doesn’t prefer it. When he rises in the morning, he feels half dead, but he has to drag himself out of bed and to class anyways. 

Teaching goes moderately well. Everyone stays as engaged as one can during a lecture and he only hates all the eyes on him _almost_ as much as usual. 

“Alright, now I’ve got my own training to get to, so you guys break and get started. Gloucester, help Marianne with some lance work after doing those practices I suggested.” He winks and Lorenz looks thoroughly grumpy, but doesn’t protest. He slips between the rows of desks as everyone else gathers up their things and hits the bricks. 

He makes his way out to the archery range. The clouds are lingering heavy overhead, signs of the rainy season on its way. Garland Moon brings the rains here. Next month it’ll be rainy season in Almyra. Feels weird to be ahead of schedule. The rain always makes him sleepy. Something about the clouds. He liked to watch them out his window when he was too nervous to sit outside and he would doze off against the sill, wake up to the muffled sound of pouring rain. 

He sits in the shade of a tree and starts working on his bow. But when he’s sure it’s prepared, he sets it aside and leans back, resting against the trunk of the tree. He’s exhausted. Maybe he can just nod off for a few minutes while listening to the little songbirds in the tree.

The lazy haze of sleep has almost overtaken him when the unmistakable sound of a dagger singing through the air startles him awake. He scrambles up with his back against the trunk as quick as he can, though his limbs are leaden with sleep. He grips his own dagger and tugs it from his belt, looking up… to see the very unimpressed gaze of Shamir bearing down on him, arm extended. He glances to the side and sees the dagger embedded in the tree, very close to where he was sleeping. 

“Ah?” Claude greets, shoulders sinking lightly, the panicked look rushing off his face as if washed off by downpour, replaced by an easy smile.

“Claude. Why are you lazing about? You should be training,” she says. 

“Was this your doing?” Claude asks, tugging the dagger out. He wags it at Shamir disapprovingly. “Talk about unfriendly. Another inch and you would’ve sliced my handsome nose clean off my roguishly beautiful face.” 

“But I didn’t. Lucky for you.” 

“If you wanted to give me a talking to, you could’ve used your words. That’s how most people do it,” Claude says, standing up. “I thought I was being attacked. I could’ve died from the fright. Who needs that on their conscience?” 

“Conversation wasn’t my intent,” Shamir replies, looking at her bow and starting to tighten the string. “Look at the dagger.” 

Claude lifts the dagger to look at it with a frown. And there on the tip is… “There’s a poor spider impaled on it,” Claude says, surprised. Aw. Sad little guy. 

“Poisonous spider,” Shamir says, reaching out to take the dagger. “One of the deadliest in Fódlan. The tiniest bite can cause headache, fever, and vomiting. Or worse.” She shoulders her bow and heads over towards the targets, clearly prompting Claude to follow. 

“Yikes. That little guy’s more vicious than he looks. So… you saved me from certain doom?” Claude asks, grinning. That’s an impressive shot. He’s not sure he could’ve made it, even, and he’s pretty confident in his abilities. Maybe he ought to take Shamir more seriously. The greatest sniper in all the knights… He asked around about her since they last met, but that’s really something. “I’ll repay the favor someday.” 

“Repay the favor by getting started. I don’t want to waste my time.” 

Claude does get to work. He looses arrows easily. It’s like second nature by now. Whatever form Shamir tells him to demonstrate, he hits again, and again, and… Shamir’s steely expression doesn’t lift at all, though. She doesn’t even look a little impressed. Tough crowd. 

“Pull,” she says, her only warning before she tosses a target. Claude draws his bowstring back quickly and lets another arrow fly. It hits the target with a satisfying thunk. Shamir goes to appraise it. “You need to work on your reaction time.” 

“Hey, I’d say that’s pretty good,” Claude says. “In fact, I think you’d be hard-pressed to do better.” 

“...” Shamir yanks the arrow out, then comes over and hands him the disk, already readying her own bow. “Try me.” There we go. That’s how to get her engaged. 

“Pull,” Claude says, faking out the throw before tossing the disk a half second later, adding an extra bit of spin so it bows around. Shamir isn’t cowed at all. She fires the shot steady as anything and hits dead center. Claude doesn’t even have to go out and grab it to be sure. He whistles. “Impressive.” 

“Just part of the job,” Shamir says, brushing back her hair. “It’s nothing to boast about.” 

“You’ve got to want to boast a little. I hear you’re unrivaled in the knights. Not just in archery, but reconnaissance and infiltration, too.” 

“And coercion and assassination,” she says. “Where are you going with this? Do you need someone killed? Because it’ll cost a student extra,” she jokes, flatly. 

“Ooh, so violent! Why would you jump to that conclusion? I already owe you a favor, I’m not looking to be even more indebted. I just find you interesting.” 

“Interesting,” she repeats, grabbing another disk. She motions for Claude to get ready and he does. Talking and training. She’s got the right idea. 

“Mhm. A little birdie told me,” draw and… fire! Hey, that was a better hit. “That you’re from Dadga. That’s a long ways away, isn’t it? What brought you here?”

“I was a mercenary in Dadga. One of the best. Then during the Adrestian invasion, I lost.” 

“Did they bring you back as a prisoner?” Claude asks, feeling that fire stirring in his stomach again. Shamir gives him a glance out of the corner of her eye, almost like she can feel it. 

“No. They left me for dead. I came over on my own,” she says. “After they scoured Dagda, there were better pickings here.” 

“Do you plan on going back?” Claude wonders. He sees a line of tension in her shoulders that wasn’t there before when she fires off at a target. Her arrow goes slightly eskew, hitting off center. She favors her right when she’s stressed. Claude will save that information, just in case. 

“I don’t see how that’s your business,” she says. 

“Can’t a guy be curious?” He asks. She rolls her eyes. 

“I could return if I really wanted to. I have enough saved up to travel anywhere.” She deliberates on her next words, chewing on them for a moment. “You seem wary of this place. Maybe you’re right to be. But I like it well enough here. Rhea took me in when I had nowhere else to go. So for now, this is where I belong. That satisfy your curiosity?”

“Where you belong, eh?” Hearing that honestly makes him feel a little hollow inside. “Heavy stuff,” Claude jokes. “I wonder if this is where I belong.” It certainly doesn’t feel like it most of the time, but it’d be a stretch to say he felt any better back home. It’s like he can feel those terrible mountains between the two lands digging right into his ribcage, threatening to crack his sternum wide open, threatening to split him in two. 

“That’s for you to figure out,” Shamir says, politely failing to notice or care about the internal turmoil he’s trying to wrangle. Her eyes are fixed forward. “Let’s focus.” 

Poison-tipped weapons. It’s something Claude’s done before, of course, but he can’t stop the thought from bouncing around in his head after that spider incident. Fights don’t have to be deadly. Claude would prefer to end a fight with no fatalities on either side. Especially not on his. 

Unfortunately, most of the herbs his mom packed are better for espionage. Sneak in, sprinkle it in the food stores, and half the army is laid up in the infirmary the next day. They’ll be useful in the future, but having some versatility never hurt. Which means as much as he’d like to nap the evening away, it’s time for a trip to the greenhouse. 

He’s passed it a few times while walking around campus, but never bothered to venture inside. It’s impressively large. The low evening light filters in through the high, arched glass ceiling, spilling down across large plants with leaves so broad they cast sweeping shadows on the stones. This place is nearly overgrown, grass and roots digging their way up between the pavement, nature mingling with the man-made. 

Claude loves it, honestly. And the density of the foliage means this looks like a great place to hide. He’ll have to keep that in mind. 

He creeps along, feeling a greater need to be reverently quiet here than in any part of the actual monastery, when he hears two voices from the back of the greenhouse. 

“-isten to them,” says Dedue, his tone tempered by concern. “You know how foolish people can be.” 

“I know,” Ashe agrees. “I just hate to hear people talk about Lord Lonato that way. He’s a good man.” There’s a deep sadness to his voice. Claude doesn’t know him well, but he thinks that if he did, he’d be aching for him. “This is so unlike him. He’s never been violent. Something must’ve happened.” 

“We will find out,” Dedue assures, so certain even Claude finds himself convinced of it for a second. Ashe sniffles. Claude peeks around the plants to look at the both of them. They seem hard at work, gently tending to the plants before them. 

“I’m almost more afraid of learning he has good reason,” Ashe admits. “What do we do if he’s right? If he needs our help? I don’t want to… to-” 

“Do not fret,” he says. “We shall deal with the problems as they come.” He rests a hand on Ashe’s shoulder. “Remember. We will always stand behind you.” Ashe nods. Some quiet and implicit exchange has gone on here. Those bonds of friendship Claude was thinking about. They support each other through and through. Would Dedue turn his back on the Church for Ashe? Would the rest of the Lions? It seems like it. Standing in the shadows of the leaves, Claude suddenly feels very alone. 

“Oh,” Ashe says, seeming surprised. He’s looking at Claude, now, twisting slightly to see him. Dedue’s hand falls from Ashe’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Were you waiting to talk to us?” 

“Yeah,” Claude lies, stepping out from his not-so-hiding place. “I didn’t want to interrupt. It seemed like an intimate moment.” He winks. 

Ashe laughs softly, embarrassed, and the light’s almost low enough to disguise the flush that rises to his cheeks. Almost. Now that’s interesting. 

“We wouldn’t have minded,” Dedue says, shaking his head. If he notices Ashe’s embarrassment, he doesn’t show it. How polite. “Are you looking for something?” 

“Right, I’ve never seen you in here before,” Ashe says, smiling. “Are you getting into gardening?” 

“No,” Claude says. “I was just looking around for herbs to cook with. I like experimenting, going off the beaten path, so-” 

“Dedue is a great cook,” Ashe interrupts. 

“You are as well,” Dedue protests. 

“Oh, but he’s better,” Ashe insists. “We can help you find some. Though it’s usually better to start looking in the kitchen than in here. Some of the plants are a little high risk to mess around with…” 

“There are poisons,” Dedue agrees, straightforward. 

“Well, not poisons,” Ashe says. “Uhm, well, maybe a little bit…” 

“Like I said, I like experimenting,” Claude says. “Being able to learn hands on. I’m really tactile like that. So how about you tell me which ones to avoid?” 

Neither of them look particularly convinced. 

“There are marks on the cards,” Dedue guides regardless. He points out the labels set before the plants. “Any with an X is unsafe for cooking.” 

“Like this one,” Ashe says, looking at a nearby card. “I think professor Manuela uses this one for a sleeping medicine.” Bingo. 

“Alright. I’ll keep an eye out for those dangerous plants during my culinary adventures.” He gives them a lazy smile. 

“...Are you trying to poison someone?” Ashe asks. 

“Don’t try to poison someone,” Dedue says. 

“Everyone around here jumps to the most violent conclusions,” Claude says, faking at being aghast. “I know my handsome visage can be a little intimidating, but that doesn’t mean I have ill intentions.” 

“Hm,” Dedue says. 

“Not every impish rogue is an assassin,” Claude clarifies. 

“Sorry,” Ashe says. “I don’t think you’re suspicious or anything. I don’t like judging people like that. But I used to know people who did that kind of thing, so I can kind of tell… I’m sure you have a good reason, though.”

“Caught, am I?” Claude sighs. Too many sharp people around here. He needs to have run-ins with well-meaning buffoons like Dimitri more often. Being figured out feels pretty bad, he’s discovering. “I’m keen on alternative battle strategies. So I’m looking for some non-lethal options. I’ll just grab some of these and be out of your hair.” 

“Are you… planning on using them if we have to fight…,” Ashe begins, though he can’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence. Dedue frowns in sympathy with him. 

“...Only if I can get them refined by then,” Claude promises. “I’d never use an unpredictable poison on a foe. The whole point is to bring them in alive, after all.” 

Ashe nods, not seeming particularly soothed. Claude doesn’t think there is a way to soothe him, though, given the context. 

“Did Sylvain talk to you?” Claude asks. 

“Huh?” Ashe says. “Oh, yeah. He said you were going to help me get to the front.” 

“And I meant it. That’s why I’m working this out. So don’t look like a cat left out in the rain.” He starts gathering the leaves he wants to work with. “I swear, no one here knows how to think positively.” He thought he’d be the most guilty of wanting to flee the scene, but he’s surrounded by pessimists. “We’ll work this out, so keep your chin up.” 

“You’re right,” Ashe says, solemn. He nods and takes a deep breath. “You’re right,” he repeats. “I can’t think negatively. If I let myself do that, then I’ve already lost. ...I need to go practice. I’ll see you later, Dedue.” With a determined look on his face, he sets off. Man, being a pep-talker is exhausting. Claude leans against one of the standing plots. 

“Thank you,” Dedue says. 

“It’s no trouble,” Claude assures. 

“We have known each other a long time.” Dedue goes back to tending the plants. “I think my comfort is so familiar, it bounces off of him.” 

“I get it. An outside perspective is helpful sometimes,” Claude says, with a little dismissive wave. “Just make sure you help me keep my promise.” 

“Naturally.” 

Today’s the day. Claude is hard at work with Marianne and Leonie in the stables, getting the horses ready for the inevitable march. Ferdinand’s voice rises like a chorus from the next stall, a sound Claude is becoming ridiculously accustomed to. The man is loud. 

_“The_ Thunderbrand?!” he asks, shocked. “How could the Archbishop fail to inform us she was to be our escort?” 

“What?” Leonie asks, dropping everything so she can peer out and join the conversation. “Catherine is the one who’s going to lead us?” 

“Who?” Marianne asks, saving Claude the agony of having to figure out a discrete way to tease out that information. 

“What do you mean, who?” Leonie asks, turning around once more to give Marianne an appalled look. 

“Only the most powerful knight in the Knights of Seiros,” Ferdinand says, intruding in with a sweeping gesture, which startles the horse. He immediately looks apologetic and helps Marianne shoosh it. 

“She wields one of the most powerful of the Heroes’ Relics,” Leonie says. “The Thunderbrand sword, passed down from Charon.” 

Claude had read about the Ten Elites, of course. Nemesis’ previous little lackeys who helped save the world alongside the four saints using their goddess-given weapons. But he didn’t know the weapons were still in use. That’s the problem with historical texts. They don’t always tell you what’s going on in the present. 

“Everyone focus,” Ingrid’s voice comes, firm and commanding, from a few rows down. “We have a schedule to meet. You can talk about Catherine later.” 

Something in her voice tells Claude she’s just as excited as everyone else. Pretty noble of her to keep it together. 

The excited buzz doesn’t quiet at all, though everyone returns to their tasks, maybe with more vigor than before. 

They begin the ride out to meet her, travelling down the side of Garreg Mach’s monumental slope, Catherine and her knights just broaching the horizon. 

Hilda pulls up alongside Claude. 

“You know,” she begins, and Claude can already guess where this is going. “If we have someone as strong as Thunder Catherine on our side, you don’t really need someone like me.” Does she know how fake her requests always sound? “I could just stay behind.” 

“You really think this is gonna work one of these days, don’t you?” Claude jokes. 

“I’m just pointing it out. Riding all that way is just going to make me get all dusty,” she says, already wiping off her armor demonstratively. “And I don’t see a reason if I’m not going to be useful.” 

“You’ll be useful,” Claude says. “You saved my hide last time, remember?” 

“Who, me?” Hilda asks. “Oh, no, that was just a lucky swing. I tripped, actually.” 

“You’re committed to this whole bit. I have to say, I admire it,” Claude says, sounding almost as tired as he feels. “But I have to ask. Who falls for things like that? ...Besides Gloucester,” he says, looking over his shoulder back at Lorenz, who is currently embroiled in an argument with a very amused Monica. 

“I’m not really trying to trick anyone,” Hilda lies, probably. “I just don’t like this kind of thing at all. It’s so gross.” 

“I’ve noticed,” Claude laughs. “It’s been a pretty big shock. Aren’t you Gonerils supposed to be all for warfare?” 

“Ugh,” Hilda replies, twirling her hair and looking displeased. “My father and brother are, but that’s got nothing to do with me.” 

“So you’ve got no grand ambitions to help out with the Goneril mission?” He teases. 

“The Goneril mission? You mean just fighting a bunch of people for no reason all the time? They really need to get other hobbies,” she sighs. “Holst has been writing me letters about how bored he is lately. The fights with the Almyrans have been sparser, apparently. If I were him, I’d be happy.”

They have been? That’s exciting to hear. It’s exactly what Claude hoped would happen when he came over here. He wonders which of his parents snuffed that eternal flame. It doesn’t really matter; he can imagine the conversation either way:

 _Our boy’s in the Alliance now. What if that old bastard sends him out in the navy to spite us? Well, he might be fine. Then again, we let Nader train him, hahaha! No, probably best to pull back our forces._

It’ll do the nation good to have some downtime. Maybe everyone will get to celebrate a little more and fight a little less. 

“I kind of agree with you a bit. Too much fighting doesn’t do anyone any good,” Claude says. “But you can't weasel out of all your responsibilities. When there’s actually a reason is when you _should_ fight. So I won’t be letting you sit this one out. Sorry.” 

“I should’ve seen that coming,” Hilda sighs. “Don’t blame me when I’m no help at all.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Claude says. 

Luckily, he’s spared any more whining when Catherine’s forces start thundering into view. They’re a small group, but they almost look more numerous with her imposing presence. Even seated and armored as she is, Claude can tell she’s tall and broad. 

Her sword is every bit as interesting as her. It’s strapped across her back, no sheath containing it for obvious reasons; the spiny protrusions would make it unmanageable. The texture of the thing is almost bone-like, like the flails one might find on the tail of some wyvern species. 

She comes to a halt. Claude hears a murmur from the direction of the Lions’ house, but before he can listen in, Catherine’s voice thunders over the din. 

“Students of Garreg Mach- I’m your commander for this mission. That means you’ll be answering to me. We want to get up to Gaspard as quickly as we can, so fall in line and keep up.” Despite the severity of her words, she sounds more friendly than anything. She’s hamming it up, trying to seem impressive for the clearly awestruck students. Leonie’s falling for it like nothing else, staring in open admiration. 

“I want professors and house leaders at the front with me. We’re not expecting any battle, but you can never know what to expect.” She turns her horse around and pushes back through the crowd of soldiers following her. They part ways swiftly, like they’re anticipating some coming storm. “Come now, to me!” And she’s rocketing off ahead like this is some race. 

Claude gives his horse a tap and gives swift chase, Edelgard following suit. Dimitri’s slower to start and seems more reluctant. Behind him, he can hear Hanneman say, 

“Ow, Manuela, it is not appropriate to push! This is not a competition!” 

“That’s what you think, you old bag of bones!” Manuela laughs. 

Catherine doesn’t keep the sprint up for long, slowing to a canter. She looks back at them and beams. 

“Good. You guys know how to keep up.” Claude watches her survey them and sees her eyes slide off of Dimitri before she faces front again. “We’re going to keep fast the whole way. Don’t let up.” 

Catherine is as unwavering as she implied. They don’t break pace until the sun dips below the horizon, riding slowly as they look for an ideal place to set up camp. 

“What do you think of Lord Lonato’s rebellion?” comes Dimitri’s voice, stirring Claude from his tired haze. He yawns and stretches. 

“His army is small, isn’t it?” Claude asks. “Whatever he’s fighting for must really mean a lot to him, considering he’s putting up a fight despite the odds. I don’t know if I would risk odds like that.” 

“I would,” Edelgard replies. “Even if his efforts are futile, if there’s something one must fight for, he must do it with all his might. If I were in his situation, I would do the same.” 

“I understand there are times when one must take up the blade, but this just seems senseless,” Dimitri replies, shaking his head. “To place his people into such danger… It’s a decision I’m certain he didn’t make lightly, but I still worry for them. I hope they’re alright. I wish my uncle would step in and do something. He and Lord Lonato are friends! ...But perhaps that’s why he’s left things to the Church,” Dimitri sighs. 

“The Church would’ve gotten involved anyways,” Catherine interjects. “It is a high crime to turn your blade against the Church, no matter what the reason is.” Dimitri’s stare could bore holes into the back of her head. 

“Which is why they had to send you out,” Claude jokes. “Take care of all this nasty business.”

“Me? No, I wasn’t involved in the initial sweep,” Catherine says. 

“Really? But I hear you’re the strongest knight. It feels weird to hold the best and bravest on retainer for cleanup duty,” Claude speculates. There’s a tension in her shoulders now. It’s visible even with all that armor blocking Claude’s view. “They probably could’ve used your sword out there.” 

“Ha. Thunderbrand is useful,” Catherine says, the tension unspooling slightly. “But they can’t let me have all the fun. Have to leave something for the other recruits to do.” 

“Since your sword probably won’t see any action… How about you let me give it a try?” Claude asks. 

Catherine laughs. 

“Sorry, kid. Only someone with a compatible crest can use it,” she says. “Otherwise it’ll wig out.” 

“What will happen?” Claude asks, brows shooting up. He tries to keep his mood up to disguise the fact that that’s heart-crushing news. No Heroes’ Relic for him, huh? 

“...I don’t know,” Catherine admits, frowning. Well, that softens the blow slightly. “I’ve never seen anyone stupid enough to try it. Nothing good, one would imagine.” 

“Hm,” Claude says. “...That means you have a crest of Charon, doesn’t it?” Claude asks. She tenses again and Dimitri does as well. 

“This is probably a good place to stop for camp,” Catherine says, pulling away to fall back in with the rest of the troops. 

“She isn’t subtle,” Edelgard says. She leaves them with that to fall in line with her house as well. 

“Are you alright, your princeliness?” Claude asks. 

“I am fine,” Dimitri assures, though the look on his face would convince anyone of the opposite. “I’d like to scout ahead. Will you fall back and ask my friends to set up my tent for me? I’m no good at it.” He’s trying so hard to fake at being pleasant. It’s almost painful to watch. 

“You sure that’s safe for you to do?” 

“I will be alright.” He prompts his horse to pick up the pace and rides ahead while Claude drops back into the ranks. 

“She would not allow me to use the Thunderbrand,” Linhardt complains. He’s standing in some remote corner talking to Hanneman. Claude had sought Hanneman out to make some similar complaints. His reading into the Heroes’ Relics has only made him more envious and more curious; the consequences of using one outside your crest are not at all well documented. This’ll make it easy to insert himself into the conversation. 

“Most unfortunate,” Hanneman agrees, shaking his head. “I understand her reluctance, but I fear she doesn’t understand the importance of our research.” 

“She shot me down, too,” Claude says. Hanneman looks at him in surprise, but Linhardt’s expression is impassive. The two of them exchange glances, then seem to accept him into the fold immediately. “She’s really coldhearted.” 

“She said that relics aren’t toys,” Linhardt says. “But what does that matter? I should be able to engage with things that keep my attention. Especially when objects of that variety are so rare… Who cares about the consequences if I’m the only one who’ll suffer anyways?”

“Well, that is a somewhat destructive viewpoint,” Hanneman argues. “If you were to die in the process of your research, who would record the findings?” 

“The consequences are lethal?” Claude asks. The two of them share another look, though Hanneman seems more energized by the question than Linhardt, who never seems to be energized by anything even when he’s what one could reasonably call ‘excited.’ 

“We don’t know,” Hanneman says. “The Church and noble houses keep the relics well guarded, so the consequences have been left unrecorded.” 

“Or the Church knows the consequences very well and hides them on purpose,” Claude suggests. 

“I… hadn’t thought of that,” Hanneman admits, bringing his hand to his chin to stroke it in thought. The Seiros cult really has everyone well and truly brainwashed. 

“So there could be no consequences at all?” Linhardt asks. “Spreading frightening rumors is a good way to keep nosy hands off. ...But not my nosy hands. Perhaps I’ll go try to pester her again.” He yawns, hand to mouth. “After a nap. All this marching is exhausting…” 

“I don’t know if she’d take kindly to you questioning the Church’s doctrine,” Claude says. 

“I don’t care,” Linhardt says. “She can yell at me all she likes. It hardly matters to me. I just want to find out more. Discovering the limitations of the Heroes’ Relics is a fascinating subject, really, and she’s getting in the way.” 

“It is a shame. You know, I read about this myth about a Heroes’ Relic that was once used to cut a mountain in half,” Claude says. 

“I’ve read the same myth,” Hanneman enthuses. “Though there are not many concrete sources on such a weapon, I would hazard a guess at it being Areadbhar or the Sword of the Creator.” 

“Both of those answers are too easy,” Linhardt yawns, physically drooping, as though the very thought set a sleeping spell upon him. 

“Sword of the Creator?” Claude asks. 

“The texts on it are scarce,” Hanneman says. So it has that in common with almost everything about Fódlan’s history. “It’s the sword the goddess was said to have given to Nemesis. Its whereabouts are currently unknown.” 

“The most important sword in Fódlan just up and goes missing?” Claude asks. 

“History has a way of doing that here,” Linhardt replies, wavering on his feet like he’s really seconds from falling asleep. 

“Just disappointment after disappointment. Now I’ll never get to cut a mountain in half for two reasons,” Claude jokes. “There go all my hopeful ambitions.” 

“It is my duty to attempt to cut your disappointment in half,” Hanneman says. “If my research is successful, I will find ways for those without compatible crests to utilize the relics.” 

“Hmm… I wonder if different crests would cause the relic to activate in different ways,” Linhardt says. “It’s really quite intriguing. You,” he continues, finally fixating his attention on Claude instead of on his standing-daydreams. “You’re the Riegan heir, aren’t you? You know, your crest really has become quite rare, especially after your mother ran off like she did. Since you’re as entrenched in these studies as I, you should let me experiment on you sometime.” 

“Sorry, Linhardt,” Hanneman jumps in before Claude has the time to panic. “But I’ve already swept up this investigative opportunity.” Apparently he’s better at lying than Claude had previously assumed. 

“What happened to your spirit collaborative research?” Linhardt complains, half-heartedly. “You’re always bothering me about sharing my research with you and then when I show some interest… I’ve already grown weary of whining about it,” he suddenly decides. “I don’t have the energy to compete. I guess I’ll take my interest elsewhere.” Another yawn. “Like to bed. Goodnight.” He leaves without waiting for reply. 

Claude’s struck again by how weird everyone here is. 

Hanneman gives Claude a grin, like he’s rather proud of himself for that performance. Claude can’t help but laugh a little. 

“Thanks for that. I don’t know how I feel about being prodded by two mad scientists.” 

“Mad scientists? We are frontiersmen,” Hanneman corrects. “But I know when information must be guarded.” 

“I appreciate it. Linhardt doesn’t look like the loose-lipped type, but you can’t be too careful,” Claude agrees, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I was quite serious about the matter of crests and weaponry, though. I would like to find some way for you to utilize your relic safely. ...If there is even a need for such a thing,” he contemplates, looking quite irritated at the lack of true answers. “It will be difficult, though. I have never had much chance to observe the use of relics. My house was never important enough to retain any.” 

“Your house?” Claude asks. “I didn’t know you’re a noble.” 

“Was,” Hanneman corrects. “I disbanded my house some years ago, before setting out to do my research.” 

“That must’ve been a pretty big decision,” Claude says. 

“One with a big motive. My sister was born without a crest. But crests have always been quite frequent in my familial line. My father and other nobles were convinced she would have crested grandchildren, and she was married off to that aim. However, none of my nieces or nephews ever manifested any. ...She always acted as though she were fine in letters to me, or during my visits, but she died very young. Afflicted by a disease of the heart. I fear, looking back, that I failed her. I think the strain of her mistreatment took her life. It is easy to lay the blame on many people, but I blame crests themselves.” 

“Man,” Claude breathes. This whole country’s being ripped to tiny shreds by the Church and the nobles. Why do people let themselves get set in their ways so much they’ll hurt others like that? “...Why have you dedicated yourself to researching something you hate?” 

“Crests are a part of our society whether we like it or not. While I decidedly do not, I understand that they are an important path of influence. As long as they remain rare, people will be judged and mistreated based upon whether or not they have them. ...I refuse to allow them to continue claiming lives through their artificial value. So I intend to make them available to everyone.” 

“That’s an interesting path to an interesting goal,” Claude admits. He can sympathize with the idea of worming his way through a structure in order to knock it down. That is kind of what he’s doing right now, after all. “That’s why you’re helping Lysithea.” 

“I wish to save her life. And I wish to use the information that can be gleaned from her malady to save the lives of many others,” he agrees. 

“When you phrase it like that, maybe I don’t mind being prodded as much,” Claude sighs. Sometimes a guy has to take one for the team for the good of society, even if Hanneman’s blood-taking creeps him out a bit. 

“I appreciate it,” Hanneman says. “Though it will take more than just me pestering you make this happen. If Catherine refuses to let us analyze Thunderbrand, we will have to do the next best thing. Keep a close eye on her while she fights and we will extract information from there.” 

“I was already planning on it,” Claude agrees. 

Magdred Way is beautiful. Claude had heard some of the Knights gushing about it before, but it still takes him by surprise. The dense and lush forests are a rare sight in Faerghus, breaking up the barren and harsh landscape. Raindrops from the recently passed storms drip from the leaves overhead and the smell of the dewy grass rises up to greet them as it’s trampled underfoot by the encroaching army. 

The only thing that stops Claude from properly appreciating the beauty is considering the risk. The terrain is slippery and he can already see the mist leeching in between the trees, creeping across the ground like spirits coming to greet them. 

As they march onward, the visibility gradually lowers. Even with his practiced eye, it’s hard to see more than a few feet in front of his face. 

Catherine sends out a scouting party. 

“This is way too scary,” Annette whispers, clearly trying to keep it to her friends. Unfortunately for her, everyone is being quiet. 

“It reminds me of a ghost story,” Mercedes replies, evidently not having the same hangups about being quiet. 

“Oh, Mercedes, please don’t,” Ashe replies, apparently struck with terror from those words alone. 

“Don’t be foolish,” Lysithea interrupts. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

“Aw, Ly,” Dorothea chimes in. “There’s no need to be frightened.”

“I’m not scared,” she protests. “Childish stories like that have no impact on me.” 

“I would like to hear this ghost story,” Hubert says, evidently amused. 

“Don’t get her started,” Felix complains. 

“In the winter, the fogs of Gaspard creep all the way across Faerghus to the Tailtean Plains,” Mercedes starts. “It’s said that during Loog’s decisive battle in the plains, the fog hung so heavy you couldn’t see your enemy until their blade clashed with yours. After the battle, the fog remained, clinging to the scarred land for days.” She abandons her reins to lift both her hands up and make a vague spooky gesture. “The surviving soldiers lingered outside the field for days, waiting for the mist to clear so they could collect their dead. But when the wind finally came to carry the mists away, the bodies were gone.” She makes a little ‘poof’ hand motion and Felix rolls his eyes. Ashe is staring, riveted and terrified all at once. 

“It’s said now that the fog comes the same every year, sticking to the plains and seeping into every corner. I know a merchant who made the mistake of travelling through the plains in the misty season,” she continues. “He and his brother were trying to make a delivery to Fhirdiad and thought to take a shortcut. They became lost in the mist. Even the sun was blotted out and they couldn’t discern where to travel. After some time, they began to hear a raucous noise in the distance. The sounds of battle. They tried to pinpoint and avoid it, but then they realized it was all around them…” 

“I- I think that’s quite enough,” Lysithea says.

“No, what happened next?” Ashe asks, breathless. 

“You’ve heard this story before,” Felix complains. “You _hate_ this story.” 

“Can I go back to camp?” Linhardt asks. “I think I want to go back to camp.” 

“They suddenly found themselves set upon by soldiers. Soldiers in ancient armor. They left their goods behind, riding straight and praying for an exit. The soldiers’ horses made no sound, so they could never tell how close they were, but they still knew they were behind them. The merchant said he could hear them calling out, begging both for salvation and for him to join their ranks,” Mercedes says. Lysithea has taken to openly clutching at Dorothea’s arm, Ignatz is leaning so far from Mercedes he might topple from his horse, and Claude is pretty sure he even sees Catherine sweating. “He finally saw the mist ahead starting to thin when from the fog an arm reached out and-” 

“Lady Catherine!” 

There is a collective scream from the students and the knights. Claude and Hubert seem to be the only survivors. 

“Uh,” the poor scout continues. “The enemy is approaching! They can’t be avoided. Their numbers are far greater than we anticipated. Lonato must have used the fog to slip past the knights’ perimeter.” 

“Right, yes-” Catherine breathes, trying to steady herself. “Everyone, looks like the situation’s just changed! Prepare for battle!” 

She changes course, pulling aside to talk to her scouts and gather more information. 

“Ha. I hope everyone is still ready after falling for that ridiculous story,” Lorenz replies. “Our house will at least have the upper hand, given that I am unshaken.” 

“You screamed,” Claude replies. 

“I did not.” 

“You did.” 

“You totally did,” Monica agrees. 

“Yep,” Hilda says. 

“Whatever,” Lorenz replies, flustered. “Let us just get to work. You had better not mess this up, Riegan.” 

“Just follow my lead and we’ll be golden,” he jokes. 

This wasn’t exactly the spot Claude imagined the clash would happen. But he memorized this landscape while preparing for this mission. He’s pretty sure he knows the terrain like the back of his hand. There are some shelled out ruins nearby. Nothing especially secure, but it’s the best place they have to stash their main man. That’s his target. 

He gets everyone to set their sights on it and begins the push forward. The Deer bloom around the Lions, securing their flanks to rush them in. 

Raphael and Monica take up the front, clearing a path with Dimitri’s aid, his lance splitting the air between them.

Lorenz and Leonie flair to either side and crash against waves of enemies, prying open their defenses and leaving room for Hilda and Felix to strike. 

“Oh, Lonato,” Ashe breathes from where he’s cradled at the center of it all. 

The battle is breakneck, forces slamming into each other in relative blindness and scrabbling for victory with furious cries only barely discernible above the scrape of metal against metal. There is hardly time to think, but Claude shouts his commands above it all. 

The smell of wet grass mostly masks the smell of blood. 

The ominous shape of the half-collapsed ruins come into view. 

“Annette,” Dimitri calls over his shoulder. 

“I’ll try,” she replies. She opens her tome and squints, and then with an uncertain hand motion, brings for a mighty gust of wind. 

It pushes at the fog like one might push at a blocked door, straining, prying open the air and shoving the smothering mist aside in a heave. Annette lets out a great exhale, seeming faint. That must’ve taken a lot of energy. But it was worth it. 

Before them, their line of sight is cleared, and Lonato stands with lance in hand. 

Between them and Lonato is Catherine. Claude watches her pull her sword back from a defeated foe, blood splattering her armor. 

“You,” Lonato calls to her. “You would show your face here? Dog of the Central Church. That liar can shield you no longer. I’ve waited for this.” 

“Have you lost all sense of justice?” Catherine replies. “Look at what you’re doing!” 

“You are the one with no sense of justice!” 

“Lonato!” Ashe cries, pushing through to the front of the lions. Lonato’s head whips over in shock. “What are you doing?!” 

“Ashe. I was hoping they wouldn’t send you out here… But the Archbishop has always been cruel,” he says. “You would know that well, wouldn’t you, Cassandra?” 

“Stop it,” Catherine says. 

“Know this, everyone. She’s the reason Christophe is dead. She killed him with her own hands.” 

“Stop.” 

“You grew up together. He was your friend. He trusted you,” Lonato cries. “And you hunted him like an animal and then spit on his corpse.” 

“You don’t understand!” 

“Was the Duscur lie your precious Archbishop’s idea, or did you concoct it yourself?” 

“Lonato, please,” Ashe says. “We can talk about this!” 

“The time for talk was before they killed your brother. Before they lied to all of Fódlan,” Lonato says. 

“He was planning to kill her!” Catherine says. “He had to be stopped-” 

“He understood that she stood only for lies! And even if his death she lied to save herself,” Lonato says. “You play along like a puppet. But I shall do so no longer. I will strike her down, for Christophe!” 

“You won’t lay a hand on her!” Catherine’s voice thunders, some dark shift overcoming her tone, seeming to swallow her. Her grip on her sword tightens and her stance changes. She seems precarious, almost like she’s forgotten where her center of balance is, leaning farther over the blade. “I will protect the Church, I will protect Lady Rhea! Your road ends here!” 

She coils, like a catapult about to launch, so much tension lining her body Claude swears he can almost see the air around her snapping under the pressure. The earth itself could creak under the weight. He sees the tilt of her sword and knows she’s aiming for the kill. No, it’s more than that. He knows she _will_ kill him. 

Her foot slides on the grass as she goes to spring forward and Claude makes a split second decision. 

Thunk. 

The arrow strikes a gap in her armor and she freezes, turning to look for the source, glassy-eyed. She doesn’t land an eye on him before she’s toppling over, claimed by unconsciousness. 

Claude raises his hands in surrender before the knights can even react. 

“Really didn’t expect to be using it that way, but alright,” Claude sighs. 

There’s a second of silence before the cacophony resumes. The knights move in trifecta, some swooping in to subdue Lonato, some gathering Catherine for retreat, and some holding Claude at lance-point. It’s like a graceful dance that makes Claude miserable. At least Lonato is alive. As he’s being ushered off by the knights, he catches Ashe giving him a grateful stare, and flashes him a smile. 

Claude sits in a separate tent at the camp, guarded by knights who are still armed to the teeth. He would charm his way out of this arrangement, but the knights don’t seem particularly keen on talking, so he’s doomed to the terrible fate of waiting it out. 

“Let me talk to him,” Catherine’s voice comes from outside, which is great news. Given how long it was taking her, he was starting to worry he’d miscalculated his dosage. She pushes inside and the other knights leave on her command. 

“Good morning,” Claude greets. 

“Very funny,” she says. “Quite the shot you’ve got there.” 

“I’ve been training with Shamir,” Claude excuses, shrugging. 

“Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush here,” she says. “So I just wanted to say… thank you.” 

“I can explain if you give me- wait, huh?” 

“I don’t know what came over me back there,” Catherine says. “What Lonato was saying… It really struck a nerve. I was being impulsive.” 

“To be fair to you, me shooting you was also impulsive,” Claude says. 

“I got that impression,” Catherine says, unamused. And then suddenly very amused. She laughs. “That took a lot of guts. I can’t even imagine the thought process.” 

“You really seem to be taking this pretty well,” Claude says. 

“I think you did the right thing,” Catherine says. “Killing Lonato could’ve lost us valuable information. We wanted to resolve this as cleanly as possible in the first place. I understand why you did it.” 

“So… I’m free to go?” Claude asks, grinning. 

“On one condition.” 

“Of course.” 

“I won’t tell the Church about your little stunt if you don’t tell them about my… big stunt.” She furrows her brow as if she’s not committed to that word choice, but it’s too late. “And. I can’t let the other students think this kind of behavior is acceptable. So you have to pretend I chewed you out.” 

“Can do,” Claude says. “How bad of a chewing out are we talking?” 

“Just imagine what Seteth would say,” Catherine says. 

“Ooh, that bad?” 

“You did shoot me.” 

“You do have a point.” Claude stands up and offers his hand. “You’ve got a deal.”

Catherine takes his hand and shakes it firmly. 

After confirming it with the guards, Claude is turned loose and allowed to return to the Golden Deer house, who are all gathered up in a nervous bundle. 

“Hey guys- miss me?” He greets, amused. 

“Claude!” Ignatz greets. He, Hilda, and Leonie all rush to meet Claude. Leonie takes one of his arms, looking him over like she’s expecting him to be injured. “I’m so glad you’re alright. We were all worried.” 

“I thought Catherine was going to throttle you,” Leonie says. 

“That was way too risky of a move,” Hilda says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you’d do something like that.” 

“I guess I just felt the urge to play hero,” Claude says, shrugging. “Catherine was roaring mad, but she was merciful enough to let me live this once.” 

“I don’t think I could survive if Catherine yelled at me,” Marianne says. “But I’m glad you did,” she adds, clasping her hands together. 

“We really thought you were going to get put on the chopping block too,” Monica laughs. 

“Luckily, I get to keep my handsome head on for now,” Claude says. “Can I get caught up on what I missed while I was in timeout?” 

“The troops are going to be withdrawing soon,” Leonie says. “We probably need to get everything gathered up… Sorry for not doing it while you were gone. We were too worried,” she admits. 

“That’s alright. I’m glad to help out. We need to hurry back so we can tell the good tale of our victory,” Claude jokes. 

“You’re right,” Ignatz says. “We did win.” There’s no enthusiasm in his voice. “...So why does it feel awful?” 

“Whoa there. You look as sad as a kitten without any yarn,” Claude jokes. “I understand the sadness, but think about it. If we didn’t do what we did, that rebel army would’ve followed this road all the way to the monastery. And they would’ve crushed all the little villages along the way. Even more people would’ve been dragged into this conflict. We stopped that from happening and we kept casualties to a minimum. You should be proud.” 

“Yeah,” Raphael enthuses, wrapping an arm around Ignatz and picking him up. “We did a great job.” He tosses Ignatz in the air, then catches him. “We gotta celebrate.” 

“I know. How about when we get back, we have a grand feast,” Claude says. “To celebrate our first victory.” 

“Now that’s my kind of party!” Raphael says, tossing Ignatz again. 

“Raphael, put me down,” Ignatz says, somewhere between a laugh and a whine. 

“Now everyone get to work,” Claude says, with a wave of his hand. Everyone breaks, slotting into assigned tasks easily. Everyone but Lorenz, who only now stands to approach Claude. 

“Riegan,” Lorenz says. 

“Gloucester?” 

“...Loathe as I am to say it, what you did out there was admirable,” Lorenz says, seeming quite displeased that he’s currently complimenting Claude. “Beyond foolish, of course, but admirable. I am… glad to see that you are alright. That is all.” 

He storms off, flustered. Claude grins after him, then sets to work as well, trying to hide the slight tremble that remains in his hands. 

“I am glad to see that you have returned safely,” Rhea greets the students as they stagger, exhausted, into audience with her. “The goddess is gracious with her divine protection. Of course, it helps that you are skilled as well,” she says. Though the corners of her mouth turn up, her eyes are devoid of the same joy. 

“I received word from the knights that some of you students expressed hesitation about combat with the militia. However, you must understand that it is our duty to punish any sinner, even if that sinner is a civilian.” 

Her words are so practiced, Claude finds himself wondering how many people she’s had to give this spiel too, how often she’s justified this kind of death. Claude looks at the other students and sees Dimitri looking especially grim in the face of this oration. 

“I pray you all learned a valuable lesson about the fate that awaits all those who are foolish enough to point their blades towards the heavens. But I did not come here just to tell you that which you hopefully already know. It is my understanding that the knights located a secret message on Lord Lonato’s person.” 

“Yes,” Seteth says, taking the floor, terse. He has a look on his face like he’s been waiting to grab this chance since Rhea began speaking. “The message contained a deplorable plot to assassinate the archbishop on the day of the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth.” He spits each word, as if each modifier brings the threat to a new level of high crime. Maybe it does. Claude hasn’t finished learning all of Fódlan’s laws. Seteth takes a breath to calm himself, resuming, at a more steady pace, “The plan seems unrealistic at best. But a threat is a threat. We must maintain constant vigilance. To that end, we would like to ask for you students to help with security on the day of the ritual.” 

“Isn’t it a bit unorthodox to put students in charge of assassination detail?” Manuela asks. “It seems risky, if you ask me.” 

“These students have already proven themselves very capable,” Rhea assures. Is it just Claude, or is Rhea staring right through the crowd to look at Byleth? He understands why she unsettles them a little better now. “As long as they work together, they will be fine.” 

“We would not resort to such a request were it not necessary,” Seteth answers. “The Knights will be on high alert, of course, but there are not enough of them to guard every corner of the monastery. It is less than ideal to call upon the students to act as guards, but given the gravity of the situation, we must bend to avoid breaking.” 

“I would still like to provide for you one knight to help you understand the security of the grounds,” Rhea says. She turns to one of the guards. “Fetch Gilbert for me.” 

The knight rushes to follow the command. It’s odd to watch how eager to please everyone is. Rhea seems to have the whole world wrapped around her little finger. The knight returns in record time with another in tow. A severe and serious looking man who bows deeply before Rhea before standing at her side. He doesn’t look at the students and rather looks up at the high arched ceilings. 

Claude appraises the crowd again and finds Annette, expression quickly flickering through shock to joy to slow building, boiling rage. The emotional intensity ripples out and all the lions seem to echo it. Gilbert doesn’t react. He doesn’t even cast his gaze down enough to notice it. 

“Come to Gilbert with any questions you have while preparing to guard,” Rhea says. “Or for any training you feel you may need. We will be redoubling our exercises in the weeks to come.” 

“With any luck, this will all be for naught,” Seteth says. “Still, be on your guard.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, sludgeraptor here! I did the illustrations for this chapter (and will be for future chapters). If you want to check out more of my art, i'm @sludgeraptor on tumblr (and twitter)! You can see better, more HQ versions of the illustrations there too (AO3 really nerfed the quality and I am, in fact, mad about it).
> 
> Most of this was written by Cocoa and I've just tacked my name on it. If it's really good then it's a part Cocoa wrote. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Thank you also to Mel (provocation on AO3, montparnasse on tumblr), Kai (seafucker on tumblr), Camille (tinynightparade on tumblr), and Jay (jaylestial on AO3, @CEOofSexe on twitter) for beta reading. Your feedback was invaluable!


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